ROUTLEDG 

*  m»^*^   ^*^      Jk,    •M^I-M^iJLt^    v^-^ 


WI^  LBVINGTON  COMFORT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Routledge  Rides  Alone 


TENTH  EDITION 


ROUTLEDGE   STARTED   AT   HER  VOICE    AND  THE   TOUCH  OF   HER   HAND 

Page  196 


ROUTLEDGE 
RIDES   ALONE 


BY  WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLORS 
BY  MARTIN  JUSTICE 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1910 
BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


Published  March,  1910 


PS 


TO  THE  LADY  OF  COURAGE 
WHOM  I  MARRIED 


626857 


Contents 

PROLOGUE 

IN  CHEER  STREET,  LONDON f 

FIRST  CHAPTER 

MOTHER  INDIA  Is  SAID  TO  BE  QUIVERING  WTH 
HATRED  FOR  HER  WHITE  CHILD,  THE  BRITISH 
FOUNDLING 30 

SECOND  CHAPTER 

THE  BAFFLING  INDIAN  MYSTERY  Is  DISCUSSED  BY 
FOUR  MEN  WHO  SHOULD  HAVE  BEEN  FIRST  TO 
SOLVE  IT 42 

THIRD  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  RELATES  HOW  A  MASTER  CAME  DOWN 

FROM  THE  GOODLY  MOUNTAINS  TO  FIND  His  CHELA 

IN  THE  BURNING  PLAINS f  i 

FOURTH  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  CONTEMPLATES  THE  PAST  IN  THE  MIDST 

OF  A  SHADOW  FORECAST  BY  LARGE  EVENTS 65 

FIFTH  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  STEPS  OUT  SPIRITEDLY  IN  THE  yoG  TO 
FIND  His  FRIENDS,  AND  ENCOUNTERS  THE  HATE  OF 
LONDON 74 

SIXTH  CHAPTER 

A  GRIM  AND  TERRIBLE  TRADITION  Is  TOUCHED  UPON 
FOR  THE  RELATION  IT  BEARS  TO  THE  TREACHERY  IN 
INDIA 85 

SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  BEGS  FOR  A  STIMULANT — THE  STUFF 
THAT  SlNGS  IN  THE  VEINS  OF  KlNGS IO4 

5 


6  Contents 

EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

THE  SUPERLATIVE  WOMAN  EMPTIES  HER  HEART  OP 
ITS  TREASURES  FOR  THE  OUTCAST,  AND  THEY  PART 
AT  CHARING  CROSS no 

NINTH  CHAPTER 

MR.  JASPER  is  INFORMED  THAT  MOTHER  INDIA 
CAUSED  NAPOLEON'S  DEFEAT,  AND  THAT  FAMINES 
ARE  NOT  WITHOUT  VIRTUE 124 

TENTH  CHAPTER 

A  SINGULAR  POWER  Is  MANIFEST  IN  THE  LITTLE 
HUT  AT  RYDAMPHUR,  AND  ROUTLEDGE  PERCEIVES 
His  WORK  IN  ANOTHER  WAR 139 

ELEVENTH  CHAPTER 

A  HAND  TOUCHES  THE  SLEEVE  OF  THE  GREAT  FRIEZE 
COAT  IN  THE  WINTRY  TWILIGHT  ON  THE  BUND  AT 
SHANGHAI i^  R 

TWELFTH  CHAPTER 

JOHNNY  BRODIE  OF  BOOKSTALLS  is  INVITED  TO 
CHEER  STREET,  AND  BOLTS,  PERCEIVING  A  CON 
SPIRACY  FORMED  AGAINST  HIM 164 

THIRTEENTH  CHAPTER 

JERRY  CARDINEGH  OFFERS  A  TOAST  TO  THE  OUTCAST 
AND  Is  COMPELLED  TO  DRINK  ALONE 175 

FOURTEENTH  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE   is  ASSURED  OF  A   WOMAN'S  LOTFE-- 
THOUGH   HE  SHOULD  LEAD  THE  ARMIES   OF  THE 
WORLD  TO  BURN  LONDON 187 

FIFTEENTH  CHAPTER 

NOREEN  CARDINEGH  APPEARS  AFTER  MIDNIGHT  IN 
THE  BILLIARD-ROOM  OF  THE  Imperial — AN  INEFFABLE 
REMEMBRANCE 200 

SIXTEENTH  CHAPTER 

CERTAIN  CIVILIANS  SIT  TIGHT  WITH  KUROKI,  WHILE 
THE  BLOOD-FLOWER  PUTS  FORTH  HER  BRIGHT 
LITTLE  BUDS..  211 


Contents 


SEVENTEENTH  CHAPTER 

FEENEY  AND  FINACUNE  ARE  PRIVILEGED  TO  "READ 
THE  FIERY  GOSPEL  WRIT  IN  BURNISHED  Rows  OF 
STEEL." 222 

EIGHTEENTH  CHAPTER 

BINGLEY  BREAKS  AWAY  FROM  THE  CAMP  OF  THE 
CIVILIANS  TO  WATCH  "THE  LEAN-LOCKED  RANKS 
Go  ROARING  DOWN  TO  DIE." 232 

NINETEENTH  CHAPTER 

NOREEN  CARDINEGH,  ENTERING  A  JAPANESE  HOUSE 
AT  EVENTIDE,  is  CONFRONTED  BY  THE  VISIBLE 
THOUGHT-FORM  OF  HER  LOVER 243 

TWENTIETH  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  Is  SEEN  BY  NoREEN  CARDINEGH  AT  AN 
EXCITING  MOMENT  IN  WHICH  SHE  DARE  NOT  CALL 
His  NAME 255 

TWENTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE,  BROODING  UPON  THE  MIGHTY  SPEC 
TACLE  OF  A  JAPANESE  BIVOUAC,  TRACES  A  WORLD- 
WAR  TO  THE  LEAK  IN  ONE  MAN'S  BRAIN 266 

TWENTY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  STRIKES  A  CONTRAST  BETWEEN  THE 
JAPANESE  EMPEROR  AND  THE  JAPANESE  FIGHTING- 
MAN,  WHILE  OKU  CHARGES  INTO  A  BLIZZARD  OF 
STEEL 277 

TWENTY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  ENCOUNTERS  THE  "HORSE-KILLER"  ON 
THE  FIELD  OF  LIAOYANG,  AND  THEY  RACE  FOR  THE 
UNCENSORED  CABLE  AT  SHANHAIKWAN 285 

TWENTY-FOURTH  CHAPTER 

THE  GREAT  FRIEZE  COAT  AND  THE  WOMAN  JOURNEY 
DOWN  THE  COAST  TOGETHER,  AND  CROSS  INDIA  TO 
THE  LEPER  VALLEY 303 


Routledge   Rides   Alone 
PROLOGUE 

IN  CHEER  STREET,  LONDON 

JERRY  CARDINEGH,  dean  of  the  British  word-painters 
of  war,  was  just  home  from  China,  where  he  had  caught 
the  Allies  in  the  act  of  relieving  Peking.  It  had  been  a 
goodly  and  enticing  service,  both  to  watch  and  to  portray, 
calling  out  much  of  glorious  color  and  tension  and  peril, 
and  not  enough  slaughter  to  chill  the  world's  apprecia 
tion.  Cardinegh  sat  by  the  fire  in  his  little  house  in  Cheer 
Street,  London,  and  was  ministered  to  by  his  daughter, 
Noreen,  a  heavenly  dispensation  which  the  old  cam 
paigner  believed  he  had  earned.  A  dinner  together,  just 
the  two,  truly  a  feast  after  lean  months  crossing  the 
mountains  of  separation.  Then  whiskey,  glasses,  soda, 
pipes,  tobacco,  papers  of  the  afternoon — all  served  by 
the  dearest  of  hands.  The  gray,  hard  veteran  lived, 
indeed,  the  maiden  filling  his  eyes. 

Twenty  he  had  left  her,  and  she  was  twenty  still, 
but  the  added  fraction  of  an  inch  made  her  look 'very 
tall,  and  startled  him.  There  was  a  mysterious  bloom 
under  the  luminous  pallor  of  her  skin;  fathoms  more 
added  to  the  depth  of  her  eyes,  and  a  suggestion  of 
volume  to  her  voice.  Nature  and  heritage  had  retouched 
the  girlish  lips  in  color  and  curve,  widened  the  tender 
Irish  eyes,  added  glow  and  amplitude  to  the  red-gold 

9 


10  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

hair.  .  .  .  There  had  only  been  two  women  in  the 
world  for  Jerry  Cardinegh,  and  the  other  was  a  memory 
— the  mother. 

"  And  who  do  you  suppose  is  coming  to-night, 
deere  ? "  he  asked.  There  was  a  silver  lining  of  the 
Tyrone  tongue  to  all  that  Jerry  said,  but  it  was  so  subtle 
and  elusive  as  wholly  to  defy  English  letters,  save  pos 
sibly  that  one  word  "  deere  "  which  he  rolled  fondly  for 
Noreen,  and  here  and  there  in  the  structure  of  a  sentence. 

"  Some  of  your  war-men  to  relieve  Peking  again 
to-night?  Who,  father?" 

"  Just  one.  The  best  and  weirdest  of  them  all.  He's 
on  the  way  home  to  the  States.  You  met  him  in  Tokyo 
five  years  since — after  the  Japanese  had  whipped  China, 
and  the  Triple  Alliance  had  stepped  in  to  gobble  the 
trophies." 

The  girl  stirred  the  fire  in  the  grate  thoughtfully  for 
an  instant,  then  started  up  in  a  glad,  impatient  way. 
"Routledge-san?" 

"The  same.  Now,  that's  queer — after  five  years — I 
mean,  the  Japanese  title  of  address — '  Routledge-san.' ' 

"  That's  what  I  used  to  call  him,  and  I  always  think 
of  him  so.  I  think  of  him  a  great  deal.  His  work  in  the 
Review  makes  me.  He  is  one  of  very  few  whom  I  could 
welcome  gladly — this  first  home-night  with  you,  father." 
She  spoke  with  the  old  fearless  candor  that  Cardinegh 
loved. 

"  So  you  think  of  Routledge  a  great  deal  ?  And 
why,  deere  ?  " 

"  He  sees  deeply.  His  work  is  illuminating  to  me. 
Sometimes  I  think  of  him  sitting  back  of  his  work  and 
smiling  because  he  knows  so  much  that  he  dares  not  set 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  11 

down.     I  think  Routledge-san  loves  Asia — as  you,  as 
we — love  Ireland,  father." 

"  You  could  not  think  about  a  better  man,  Noreen," 
said  Cardinegh.  "  And  so  he  knows  a  lot  that  he  doesn't 
write  for  the  Review?  Well,  maybe  so.  ...  He 
talks  quite  as  well  as  he  writes — when  the  spell  is  on  him. 
I  don't  know  a  man  who  can  clear  a  mind  of  all  save 
what  he's  tossing  into  it — like  Routledge.  And  the 
words  seem  to  twist  and  work  their  way  deep  like 
burrs — when  he  leans  forward  with  an  idea." 

Noreen  smiled.  "  And  why  has  he  not  been  back  to 
London  in  all  these  years  ?  " 

"  You  have  said  it — because  he  loves  Asia.* 
"  But  he  has  not  been  back  to  America  ?  " 
"  Routledge  is  quite  as  much  at  home  in  London  as  in 
Philadelphia,  his  native  city.  He  has  worked  for  the 
American  press  as  well  as  for  the  English.  You  see,  he 
needed  us  because  England  has  something  doing  more 
or  less  all  the  time  in  the  field.  In  fact,  since  Japan 
took  the  Chinese  Port  Arthur  in  '94,  there  has  been 
plenty  for  one  man  to  do  in  following  American  and 
British  arms — Cuba,  South  Africa,  the  Philippine  Archi 
pelago,  and  now  China  again.  But  I  have  met  him  off 
and  on  around  the  world.  They  are  good  men  of  our 
tribe,  Noreen,  strong,  brave,  and  wise  men,  but  Rout- 
ledge,  of  them  all,  has  warped  his  craft  deepest  into  my 
slip,  so  to  speak.  I  love  the  lad." 

She  was  moving  about  among  the  shadows  of  the 
sitting-room — a  touch  of  her  hand  here  and  there,  uncon 
scious  preparation,  probably,  for  the  guest,  and  a  queer 
tension  in  her  eyes.  It  was  nine,  and  a  gusty  winter 
night,  when  Cardinegh  admitted  the  world-wanderer  and 


12  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

took  his  great  frieze  coat.  Noreen  watched  from  the 
far-end  of  the  hall.  Routledge  spoke  low  and  laughingly, 
and  caught  the  elder  man  by  the  hand  and  shoulder.  A 
sense  of  exhilaration  in  full  sweep  dilated  the  veins  of  the 
girl,  and  with  it,  too,  was  a  certain  chill  of  dread,  some 
nameless  portent — a  blend  of  joy,  and  its  price  in  pain, 
all  in  that  first  glimpse.  It  was  like  the  prelude  of  a 
song,  or  the  prologue  of  a  story,  which  contains  an 
element  of  each  emotion  in  the  appeal  of  the  whole.  .  .  . 

"  And  this  is  Noreen — the  little  Noreen  whom  I  once 
dared  to  call  my  Japanese  sweetheart.  Why,  it's  water 
out  of  the  rock  to  see  you  again,  Miss  Noreen!  .  .  . 
Jerry,  the  years  have  been  consummate  artists  here  in 
Cheer  Street  while  we've  been  away  growing  old." 

Noreen  heard  herself  saying,  "  I  have  felt  close  to 
you  a  great  many  times,  Routledge-san, — all  wrapped 
up,  as  in  a  blanket,  in  those  fat  Review  columns  under 
your  name." 

"Tis  true,"  said  Cardinegh.  "We're  all  flawful 
imitations  beside  you,  son." 

"  I  was  thinking  how  good,  how  ripping  good, 
'  Routledge-san '  sounds  again,"  the  guest  declared. 
"  It's  like  a  song  of  home  heard  from  a  passing  ship." 

Before  the  fire,  the  two  correspondents  unshipped 
once  more  under  the  guns  of  the  Taku  forts,  for  the 
listening  girl,  and  followed  the  Pei-ho,  that  roiled  drain 
of  a  bitter  land,  up  to  the  Tientsin  wall. 

"  Routledge  deserted  us  that  day — went  back  to  his 
own  countrymen — the  American  column,"  said  the  father. 

Jerry  wanted  the  story  told  for  Noreen,  and  his 
memories  challenged  and  animated  Routledge.  "  Yes, 
I  wanted  to  see  my  boys  again,"  he  acknowledged.  "  I 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  13 

had  one  good  look  at  them  in  Cuba,  under  Lawton, 
who  was  killed  a  year  or  so  later,  under  my  eyes,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Maraquina  River  in  Luzon.  The  Philip 
pines  was  a  rapid,  pretty  service,  but  a  service  of  detach 
ments.  I  was  eager  to  see  how  the  boys  worked  in 
numbers.  The  American  troops  are  nervous,  you  know, 
a  little  too  highly  evolved  to  be  atoms.  They  live  for  a 
higher  game  in  their  country — commerce  and  inventions. 
Some  time  the  nation  will  rise  even  to  a  better  growth 
than  that — I  mean,  to  the  spiritual  evolution. 

"  The  boys  were  mostly  ill  in  China,  thin-blooded  from 
the  tropical  Philippines.  The  column  was  full  of  fever, 
coughing  and  cursing  a  little.  They  shook  in  the  chill 
damps  of  the  nights  up  Tientsin  way.  .  .  .  Poor 
chaps,  but  it  was  good  to  hear  them  talk,  before  the  gray 
old  walls  of  Tientsin — that  night  when  the  world  was 
hanging  to  the  cable-ends  for  the  flash,  '  battle.'  I  rode 
along  the  huddled  column  and  heard  Texas,  Indiana,  Nob 
Hill  and  the  Bronx,  Halsted  Street  and  Back  Bay — all 
from  the  shadows  on  the  ground,  that  breathed  tired 
oaths  and  shivered  in  the  drive  of  the  fine,  chilled  rain." 

Jerry  took  up  the  picture  excitedly :  "  Do  you  remem 
ber  when  the  spray  of  sparks  shook  out  from  behind  the 
wall? — the  party  in  charge  of  the  fireworks  was  trying 
the  night  to  see  if  it  were  dark  enough.  Then  followed 
a  succession  of  booming  crashes.  It  was  as  if  the 
plain  was  drawn  tight  as  a  drum-head,  and  they  dropped 
comets  on  it.  ...  The  Chinos  got  the  Russian 
range  about  that  time,  and  left  open  sores  in  the  snaky 
Slav  line.  And  I  want  to  know,  Routledge,  did  you  hear 
the  high-pitched  scream  from  the  Japanese  when  they 
snatched  the  glory  of  the  lead?  .  .  .  Ah,  we'll  hear 
from  those  brown  dwarfs  again !  " 


14  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Routledge.  "  They  ran  forward 
like  hounds,  snapped  at  each  other  and  gave  tongue  like 
a  pack  closing  in  for  the  kill.  Yes,  I  remember,  and  then 
the  fire  broke  out  behind  the  wall  in  the  native  city,  and 
the  sky  took  on  the  red — the  red  of  an  Indian  blanket! 
It  shone  red  on  the  faces  of  the  boys  from  the  States. 
.  .  .  Miss  Noreen,  you  listen  large-eyed  as  Des- 
demona." 

"  Tell  me  more  about  your  boys,"  she  whispered. 

"  The  trumpet  screeched  (  forward/  and  the  column 
quickened  into  life,"  Routledge  explained,  "  sprang  like 
magic  into  formation  and  swept  past,  panting,  laughing, 
shouting  in  the  rain.  God,  pity  them !  They  were  good 
boys — good  boys,  all.  I  wish  they  had  all  come  back 
with  their  dreams  all  turned  true.  .  .  .  They  didn't 
know  what  was  ahead,  except  they  had  seen  the  blind 
gray  stones  of  the  wall  through  the  dusk  at  the  end  of 
the  day's  march.  They  didn't  know  what  the  fight  was 
about,  but  they  ran  to  break  the  wall,  gladly,  against  the 
rock  of  centuries — into  fire  and  steel  and  the  yellow  hate 
from  all  the  hells.  It  meant  nothing  to  them  after  the 
wall  was  broken.  That's  the  queer,  ugly  part  of  it. 
The  man  in  the  ranks  always  gets  the  worst  end — and 
so  pitifully  often  doesn't  even  have  a  sentiment  to  en 
thuse  over.  He's  apt  to  fall  in  a  fight  against  as  good 
friends  as  he  has  anywhere  on  this  spinning  planet,  and 
what  meaning  has  the  change  of  national  boundaries 
to  his  mother  ? "  Routledge  was  thoughtful  for  a 
moment.  .  .  . 

"  It  seems  hard  to  use  grown-ups  like  that — men, 
white  men,  with  spines  at  right-angles  from  the  snake's, 
and  a  touch  of  eternity  in  their  insides  somewhere.  Poor 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  15 

devils,  getting  the  worst  of  it — that's  always  the  wayl 
.  .  .  I  watched  the  tail  of  the  column  swaying  by — 
watched  the  last  fragments  blotted  up  in  the  rain  and 
the  night  Already,  in  a  red  mist  on  the  Tientsin  Wall 
the  dance  of  death  had  begun." 

Noreen's  eyes  were  filled  with  mysteries  and  misti 
ness.  As  in  his  work,  Routledge  now  suggested  to  her 
volumes  unsaid.  Her  heart  sensed  the  great  wealth  of 
the  man.  She  felt  an  inner  expansion.  Pity  was  almost 
a  passion  in  his  face;  and  there  was  hate,  too — hate  for 
the  manipulations  of  the  rulers  of  the  earth,  which  drove 
forward  that  poor  column  cursing  and  coughing  in  the 
rain.  She  saw  it  all — as  if  she  had  been  at  his  side  that 
night — the  fire-lit  field  running  with  the  reddest  blood 
of  earth.  And  across  the  world  she  seemed  to  see  the 
faces  of  the  maids  and  mothers  of  these  boys — faces 
straining  toward  them,  all  white  with  tragedy.  And 
more,  she  seemed  to  see  for  an  instant  the  Face  of  the 
high  God,  averted  from  His  images,  because  they  were 
obsessed  in  that  profane  hour  by  the  insane  devils  of 
war.  .  .  .  The  profile  of  Routledge  fascinated  her. 
He  had  spoken  lightly — as  he  was  accustomed  to  speak 
before  men  to  whom  war  was  a  career — but  the  aroused 
girl  saw  in  his  eyes,  tightly  drawn  against  the  lamp 
light,  a  mystic's  rebellion  against  the  inhumanity  of 
material  power.  About  his  eyes  and  graven  entire  upon 
the  tropically  embrowned  face  was  a  look  impossible  to 
the  men  her  life  had  known, 

"  I  was  tangled  up  in  a  reserve  of  Russian  infantry 
afterward,"  Routledge  concluded.  "  Jerry,  you've  heard 
the  Russians  sing?  " 


16  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  Aye,  at  Plevna  and  before,  son." 

"  It's  a  thing  worth  living  long  to  hear — wild  and 
mournful  as  a  Siberian  winter.  .  .  .  This  reserve 
roared  its  song  as  it  bored  into  Tientsin — a  song  of 
snow-bound  hills  and  ice-bound  hearts — poor  muzhiks! 
And  a  British  battery,  tons  of  charging  steel  and  brass, 
thundered  thfc  bass !  " 

So  between  them,  the  two  correspondents  covered 
the  story  of  that  one  fight  in  the  night — on  the  way  to 
lift  the  lid  from  the  legations  at  Peking.  A  messenger 
from  the  Witness  office  at  this  .  point  brought  certain 
cable  copies  for  Cardinegh  to  comment  upon  for  an 
editorial  paragraph  or  two.  He  went  into  his  study. 

"  Routledge-san,  do  you  mind  if  I  ask  you  to  talk 
more  ?  " 

Noreen  edged  her  chair  closer  like  a  little  girl  antici 
pating  a  story. 

"  Such  listening  as  yours,"  he  laughed,  "  would  make 
a  Napoleon  disclose  his  plans  for  the  next  morning's 
battle.  It  would  bring  out  the  best  of  any  man's 
tales.  Ask  me  anything  that  I  know  and  it  is  yours." 

"  Always  when  the  other  correspondents  come 
here  to  Cheer  Street — and  nearly  all  of  them  call  to  see 
father — I  have  made  them  all  tell  me  about  the  bravest 
deed — the  bravest  man — they  have  ever  seen  or  known  in 
all  their  services.  I  think  I  know  them  all  but  yours." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  my  bravest  man  will  be 
like,  you  collector  of  heroisms  ?  " 

"  That's  just  the  point,  Routledge-san.  I  think  yours 
won't  be  a  man  of  merely  brute  courage.  That's  why 
I  am  so  anxious  to  hear." 

"  In  this  case  I  am  like  one  of  the  messengers  to 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  17 

Job — I  alone  remain  to  tell  you.  I  have  never  told  any 
one,  but  sometimes  it  occurs  to  me  to  write  the  story  of 
Rawder  for  the  few  who  care  to  understand.  He  is  my 
property,  Miss  Noreen,  a  humble  martyr  with  a  mighty 
soul  like  Saint  Paul's. 

"  He  is  a  man  born  to  suffer,  as  all  the  great  are, 
who  crucify  themselves  in  various  ways  to  lessen  the 
sufferings  of  commoner  men.  I  have  never  felt  the  same 
about  any  other  man.  There  is  something  quite  miracu 
lous  about  our  relation.  Accidentally,  as  it  appears,  I 
have  met  him  somewhere  every  second  year  for  a  double 
decade — the  last  time  in  Hong  Kong  this  trip  home.  I 
surely  shall  see  him  again  ?  Does  it  sound  foolish  to  you 
— this  idea  of  being  destined  to  meet  a  certain  some  one 
from  time-to-time  somewhere — until  the  End  ?  " 

"  No.  I  want  to  hear  it  all,  just  as  it  comes  to  you, 
with  all  your  thoughts  about  it — please.  Father  will  be 
busy  for  a  half-hour  in  his  study.  I  think  I  shall 
understand." 

Routledge  leaned  back  with  a  cigarette,  which  with 
him  was  only  an  occasional  indulgence.  "  As  I  say,  I 
meet  bim  every  second  year  in  my  wanderings,  and  I 
am  always  healed  from  the  jangle  of  the  world  and 
world-politics  after  a  day  with  Rawder,"  he  resumed, 
watching  her.  "  He  had  a  strangely  unattractive  face 
as  a  boy — slow  with  that  dullness  which  sometimes  goes 
with  the  deaf,  and  a  moist,  diffused  pallor  that  suggests 
epilepsy.  His  original  home  was  away  up  in  a  New 
England  village,  restricted  as  a  mortise-box  in  its  thought 
and  heart.  The  Rawders  were  a  large,  brief  family — 
six  or  seven  children — the  whole  in  harrowing  poverty. 
Certain  of  the  littler  ones  were  hare-lipped ;  all  were  the 
2 


18  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

fright  of  other  children.  I  never  liked  New  England. 
.  .  .  I  can  see  yet  the  gray,  unpainted  house  of  the 
Rawders,  high  on  a  barren  hill  against  the  gray,  bitter 
sky — rags  in  the  broken  window-panes ;  voices  in  the 
house  that  you  could  not  forget,  yet  loathed  to  remem 
ber.  .  .  .  All  died  in  a  year  except  this  boy  who 
became  my  friend.  All  met  the  Reaper  without  pomp  or 
heraldry,  the  funerals  overlapping,  so  that  the  village 
was  dazed,  and  the  name  of  Rawder  stands  to-day  for 
Old  Mortality  at  his  worst.  So  there  was  left  only  this 
one,  a  strange,  wordless  type  of  Failure  in  the  eyes  of 
the  village. 

"  He  was  a  little  older  than  I — but  a  sort  of  slave  of 
mine.  I  see  it  now.  I  had  everything  that  good  family 
and  parental  wisdom  could  bless  a  boy  with,  and  he  had 
nothing.  That  I  pitied  him  seemed  to  warm  his  soul 
with  gratitude.  He  expected  so  little  and  was  willing  to 
give  so  much.  I  wish  I  had  understood  better  then. 
.  .  .  He  aspired  to  the  ministry,  but  his  ordination 
was  long  denied  him.  He  was  second  in  his  class  after 
years  of  study  in  a  theological  school,  earned  with  incred 
ible  penury,  but  his  trial  sermon  or  something  about  him 
shocked  the  community.  I  know  now  that  it  was  a 
wider,  gentler  piety.  About  this  time  I  had  come  in 
from  my  first  trip  around  the  world.  Unable  to  get  a 
church,  he  asked  for  a  foreign  mission,  the  smallest 
mission  in  the  loneliest,  most  dreadful  land.  His  answer 
was  a  whisper  through  the  assembly  of  preachers,  chal 
lenging  his  sanity.  Forgive  them,  as  he  did,  Miss 
Noreen.  I  could  not  have  fully  understood  the  features 
of  his  tragedy,  but  I  remember  that  when  I  parted  from 
him  that  time,  there  was  a  vague  desolation  in  my  heart. 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  19 

I  could  not  forget  the  deep,  troubled  eyes  nor  the  heavy 
homely  face,  all  scourged  with  harshness  from  a  babe, 
a  veritable  magnet  of  evil  fortunes. 

"  Back  from  England  again,  I  encountered  him  in 
Boston  under  the  banners  and  torches  of  the  Salvation 
Army.  He  was  thinner,  deeper-eyed,  richer-voiced,  and 
all  animate  with  love  for  his  race.  For  the  first  time  I 
felt  the  real  spell  of  the  man.  It  was  something  in  his 
eyes,  I  think — something  that  you  see  in  the  eyes  of  a 
little  child  that  is  dying  without  pain." 

"  Visions,"  she  whispered. 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  word.  Some  God-touched  thing 
about  the  man  in  the  streets  of  Boston.  But  I  am  making 
my  story  long,  Miss  Noreen.  I  did  not  know  that  I  had 
all  these  details.  It  has  become  rather  an  intimate  fancy 
of  mine — this  story." 

"  Please  tell  me  all.  I  think  it  is  to  be  the  story  of  a 
great  victory." 

"  Yes,  the  years  to  come  will  end  it  so.  ...  Two 
years  ago,  I  was  riding  with  Tarrant's  cavalry  in  southern 
Luzon  when  I  discovered  Rawder  among  the  troopers. 
It  was  in  the  midst  of  a  blistering  march  of  twelve  hours 
from  San  Pedro  Macati  to  Indang,  without  a  halt  for 
coffee  or  bacon.  He  did  not  see  me,  and  I  could  not 
get  to  him  until  the  column  broke  formation.  What  he 
must  have  suffered  climbing  Fool's  Hill  as  a  regular 
cavalry  recruit !  There  was  a  fight  in  the  afternoon,  and 
the  column  was  badly  jumbled.  Every  fourth  man  stayed 
behind  with  three  horses  and  his  own.  The  rest  ad 
vanced,  dismounted,  into  action.  Rawder  was  with  the 
fighting  force.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  during  the 
early  stress  of  things.  There  was  just  as  much  iron  in 


20  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

his  jaw  as  in  Tarrant's,  whose  valor  had  vibrated  across 
the  Pacific.  Even  so,  I  heard  a  non-commissioned  officer 
abuse  him  like  a  cur — God  knows  why,  unless  it  was 
because  Rawder  did  not  shoot  to  kill.  That  night  when 
we  entered  Indang,  I  could  not  find  him.  He  was  not  in 
the  formation  next  morning.  Tarrant  rode  on  without 
him.  Apparently,  I  was  the  only  one  who  cared.  I 
think  he  was  regarded  much  the  same  in  the  cavalry  as 
he  was  by  the  Methodist  conference  and  before  the  com 
mittee  on  foreign  missions. 

"  The  next  week  Tarrant's  column  struck  war — a  bit 
of  real  war.  I  found  all  that  archipelago-service  inter 
esting,  hit-and-run  campaigning,  with  all  the  human 
interest  of  bigger  lines.  We  were  caught  on  a  sunken 
jungle-trail  and  fired  upon  from  three  sides.  Small  in 
numbers,  but  that  fight  was  of  the  sort  which  makes 
the  mess-talk  of  English  regiments  for  decades,  and 
their  flag  decorations.  I  never  saw  a  bit  of  action  at 
closer  range.  It  was  even  shown  to  me — the  peculiar 
way  men  open  their  mouths  when  struck  about  the  belt. 
I  heard  souls  speak  as  they  passed — strange,  befuddled 
utterances,  from  brains  and  lips  running  down,  but  full  of 
meaning — sayings  of  great  and  memorable  meaning.  I 
saw  Tarrant  stand  for  thirty  seconds  under  the  first 
volleys,  dismayed  in  the  yellow  glare.  There  is  no  sight 
for  a  soldier  so  terrible  as  a  glimpse  of  havoc  in  the  face 
of  his  chief,  but  he  righted  quickly  enough.  For  the 
moment  the  men  tried  to  cover  themselves  in  the  soiled 
short  straws  of  their  religion. 

"  It  was  a  voice  in  the  jungle  that  had  startled 
Tarrant.  I  tell  you  the  whole  story,  Miss  Noreen, 
because  of  that  voice  in  the  jungle.  The  natives  were 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  21 

led  by  a  white  man,  who  wore  the  khaki  of  an  American 
soldier.  It  was  this  white  leadership  which  had  herded 
Tarrant's  column  for  slaughter  in  that  hot  sink  of  the 
jungle.  The  cry  of  '  Rawder !  Rawder ! '  went  up  from 
the  American  command.  Something  in  the  voice  troubled 
me — just  for  a  second — with  the  fear  that  Rawder  might 
have  run  mad  at  the  last.  .  .  .  Listen,  I  think  there 
is  no  hate  in  the  world  so  baleful  and  destructive  as  that 
aroused  by  a  deserter  who  leads  the  enemy  against  his 
own  people.  And  this  man  led  a  black  force  of  Malays ! 
.  .  .  The  natives  retired  finally,  and  the  white  man 
with  them.  An  Indiana  soldier  was  dying  in  the  sun 
when  all  was  still.  I  heard  him  say  wearily,  '  Gawd,  if 
I  could  only  have  killed  Rawder,  hell  would  have  been 
a  cinch  for  me ! ' 

"  That's  how  they  hated  him  that  day.  The  story  of 
Rawder,  the  deserter,  went  around  the  world.  It  had 
the  eternal  grip  of  interest  of  a  scapegoat  who  turns  into 
a  fire-brand.  Manila  sent  column  after  column  of  infan 
try  into  the  Indang  country  and  down  below  to  the 
Camarines,  but  the  renegade  was  not  to  be  captured  just 
yet. 

"  I  continued  to  ride  with  Tarrant  for  awhile  after 
that.  He  found  action  when  there  was  any ;  moreover,  I 
felt  that  the  real  story  of  Rawder  had  not  been  written. 
He  was  big  to  me,  and  I  could  not  believe  the  voice  from 
the  jungle  was  his.  Tarrant  was  ordered  with  his  troop 
and  two  others,  dismounted,  to  Minday,  a  little  island 
south  of  Luzon,  which  Nature  has  punished  in  various 
ways.  I  remember  the  empty,  sun-blinded  inlet,  as  our 
little  transport  stirred  the  sand.  Not  a  banco  or  casco 
came  out  to  meet  us.  We  were  in  the  midst  of  a  people 


22  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

who  put  up  no  front  for  peace.  There  is  a  Spanish 
tradition  that  each  male  native  of  Minday  is  possessed 
of  seven  devils  and  the  leaders  ten. 

"  '  Best  fighting  men  on  the  islands — these  Minday- 
ans/  Tarrant  told  me.  '  The  price  of  life  here  is  to  kill 
first,  to  kill  all  the  time,  snakes  and  men.'  That  night  I 
wandered  about  the  deserted  port  in  the  Crusoe  silence. 
At  the  edge  of  the  town,  I  was  '  put  out '  by  the  route  of 
flashing  stars — a  blow  on  the  head  from  behind. 

"  Oddly  enough,  Miss  Noreen,  the  natives  let  me 
live.  In  the  morning  I  awoke  in  a  bungalow  and  dis 
covered  Rawder  sitting  in  the  doorway. 

"  His  queerly-cut  eyelids  were  drawn  together  by  the 
intensity  of  light.  Outside,  the  sunlight  waved  in  pure 
white  flame.  It  was  the  vividest  time  of  the  day,  of  the 
hottest  time  of  the  year,  in  the  fieriest  island  of  the 
globe.  Minday  is  insidious.  You  can  breathe  and  walk 
outside,  but  if  you  don't  get  under  cover  when  your 
scalp  warns  you  with  its  prickling,  you  will  likely  be 
buried  at  eventide  by  the  wild  dogs  of  Minday.  Or, 
possibly,  if  your  vitality  is  immense,  the  sun  will  spare 
your  life,  but  fry  the  contents  of  your  brain-pan,  which 
is  rather  worse  than  losing  an  arm. 

"  Rawder  did  not  note  that  I  was  awake.  He  was 
exchanging  ideas  with  a  young  Mindayan  whose  skin 
was  the  color  of  the  dead  wet  oak  leaves  which  floor  the 
woods  at  home  in  the  spring.  It  appears  that  this  stained 
one  had  been  in  Luzon  and  learned  eighteen  or  twenty 
words  of  English.  Through  these,  and  the  signs  which 
clasp  the  world,  Rawder  was  amassing  Mindayan  for 
the  purpose  of — administering  Methodism  to  the  nitives. 

"  I  had  been  unconscious  for  many  hours.     I  could 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  23 

not  rise,  and  my  brain  seemed  to  be  working  on  a  little 
boy's  shift.  For  ages,  it  seemed,  I  watched  the  hand  and 
lip  converse,  too  weak  to  call,  to  ask  why  I  lived — my 
skull  filled  with  sick-room  wonderings.  Rawder  labored 
on  with  the  language,  calm,  gentle,  homely  unto  pain. 
He  was  leaner,  stronger,  than  before;  untanned,  but  the 
pasty  pallor  was  gone  from  his  face.  Years  had  out 
grown  the  heritage  of  physical  disorder.  I  had  always 
noted  how  his  thoughts  formed,  slowly,  thoroughly, 
without  adornment,  but  each  thought  straining  his  limi 
tations  to  the  roof  of  his  brain.  If  an  action  were 
involved  in  any  of  Rawder's  thoughts,  he  carried  out 
that  action,  as  good  hounds  run — to  the  death.  I  saw 
now  that  wonderful  look  about  him,  that  Heaven-warmed 
something  which  distinguishes  a  man  who  has  great 
work  to  do  in  the  world.  Perhaps  I  alone  could  see  it. 
They  say  God  never  sends  a  great  soul  among  men 
without  some  one  to  recognize  it.  It  may  be  that  the 
honor  is  mine  in  the  case  of  Rawder.  Stricken  as  I  was, 
I  could  not  help  noting  his  endurance  of  concentration. 
This,  as  you  know,  is  the  gift  only  of  mystics.  He  was 
driving  the  monkey-mind  of  the  Mindayan  interpreter 
to  the  beds  of  torture  with  it.  ...  He  saw,  at  last, 
that  my  eyes  were  open,  and  came  to  me,  kneeling  down 
to  take  my  hand.  The  native  seized  the  moment  to 
escape. 

"  It  transpired  I  was  in  the  real  village,  two  miles 
back  from  the  port.  The  Mindayans  had  brought  me 
with  several  American  soldiers  who  had  wandered  the 
night  before  over  the  edge  of  camp,  to  furnish  a  bright 
torture-entertainment  in  the  town-plaza.  Rawder  had 


24  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

saved  my  life,  but  the  others  had  gone  out  in  unmen 
tionable  ways. 

" '  I  was  awake  when  they  brought  you  in,'  he  said. 
'  These  people  have  not  rallied  to  me  very  strongly  yet, 
or  I  could  have  saved  the  boys  who  were  captured.  .  .  . 
But  you — I  begged  for  your  life  through  the  interpreter, 
saying  that  you  were  a  great  teacher  and  not  a  soldier, 
showing  them  the  difference  in  your  garments — and  your 
face.' 

"  Perhaps  you  can  picture,  Miss  Noreen,  his  struggle 
with  the  natives,  while  I  had  lain  unconscious  that 
night.  ...  I  explained  to  him  that  Tarrant's  com 
mand  took  him  for  a  deserter  and  a  renegade,  whose 
leadership  had  made  fiends  of  the  Tagals.  He  stared  out 
in  the  open  for  a  long  time  without  speaking.  He  was 
not  whipped  nor  enraged,  as  a  lesser  man  would  be.  I 
think  I  shall  always  remember  his  words: 

[ '  I  seem  to  fail  so  many  times  and  in  so  many  ways 
before  getting  started  in  my  real  work,  Mr.  Routledge. 
The  soldiers  are  not  to  blame.  They  could  not  under 
stand  me ;  and  yet  my  purpose  was  so  simple.  I  should 
not  have  told  them  that  I  meant  to  be  a  missionary  in 
Asia  when  my  enlistment  was  through.  It  confused 
them.  Some  time  all  will  understand.  Some  time  I 
shall  do  well  and  not  fail.' 

" '  But  how  did  you  get  away  from  the  command  ? ' 
I  asked. 

"  '  I  do  not  know,'  "  he  answered.  '  During  the  fight 
I  fell  from  the  heat  and  a  slight  wound.  I  awoke  alone, 
concealed  my  arms  in  the  jungle,  and  tried  to  follow 
the  troop.  I  must  have  mistaken  the  trail,  because  I 
never  saw  the  American  outfit  again.  Three  days  of 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  25 

night  travel  brought  me  close  to  the  big  native  coast 
town  of  Triacnakato,  where  I  fell  in  with  a  party  of 
Mindayans,  there  on  a  trading  voyage ' 

"  '  Tell  me,  Rawder,'  I  interrupted,  *  why  you  joined 
the  cavalry  in  the  first  place.' 

"  '  Asia  called  to  me.  Always,  in  those  last  days  in 
Boston  I  heard  Asia  call  me  to  work.  I  had  no  money  to 
reach  the  Pacific  nor  to  cross  it,  so  I  was  enlisted  with  a 
regiment  ordered  to  service  here.  I  had  heard  of  certain 
soldiers  doing  good  work  among  their  fellows  in  the  old 
English  regiments,  and  thought  that  until  I  was  free 
again  I  might  be  a  help  in  the  troop.  White  men  do  not 
seem  to  listen  to  me,  Mr.  Routledge.' 

"  Thus  he  talked,  Miss  Noreen.  Do  you  like  him  a 
little  bit — my  great  man,  Rawder  ?  " 

The  girl  regarded  him  hesitatingly  for  a  moment,  as 
if  to  reply  was  not  easy.  "  I  like  him  so  well,"  she 
answered  at  last,  "  that  I  wish  it  were  my  destiny  to  meet 
him  every  little  while  up  the  years,  as  you  do.  Tell 
me  all." 

"  And  so  he  had  started  in  to  teach  the  words  of 
John  Wesley,  and  others,  to  these  Mindayans  whom 
Spain  had  left  to  themselves  on  account  of  their  ferocity. 
God  knows  why  the  Mindayans  gave  him  a  Messiah's 
chance  to  learn  their  language  and  explain  his  message, 
but  they  let  him  live.  And  now  I  must  tell  you  about 
another  moment  or  two  of  battle.  There  has  been  far 
too  much  war  already  for  your  frightened  eyes,  but  this 
is  short  and  about  my  bravest  man. 

"  As  we  talked,  there  was  a  sharp  crack  of  a  Krag 
carbine.  I  could  not  rise,  but  crawled  to  the  doorway. 
The  Mindayans  had  formed  in  the  plaza  for  action. 


26  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Tarrant  was  coming  with  his  squadron  of  cavalry  to 
settle  for  the  murders  of  the  night  before,  and  the  naked 
Mindayans  essayed  to  meet  him  in  the  open — as  the 
Tagals  of  Luzon  had  never  dared  to  do.  It  was  all  on 
in  a  moment.  Out  of  the  jungle  came  the  boys  from  the 
States — queer,  quick  lines,  blowing  their  bubbles  of  white 
smoke,  dropping  down  to  fire  and  running  forward  in 
skirmish,  answering  the  trumpet-talk  as  running  metal 
answers  to  the  grooves  of  a  mold.  In  the  blazing  open — 
in  a  light  so  intense  that  it  was  pain  to  look  through  it — 
the  forces  met.  Mindayans,  with  guns  dating  from 
Magellan;  the  Americans  with  their  swift,  animate 
Krags;  a  squadron  of  white  men,  three  skeleton  troops 
picked  from  forty  States,  stacked  against  a  thousand-odd 
glistening  blacks  all  enthused  to  die.  Hell's  forbidden 
chambers  were  emptied  that  hour,  Miss  Noreen.  I  hated 
war  then — but  have  hated  it  since  far  more. 

"  They  met — before  my  eyes  they  met — and  the  dead 
flew  out  of  the  lines  like  chaff,  and  were  trampled  like 
chaff  by  the  toilers.  Hand-to-hand  at  last;  shiny  black 
of  flesh  against  the  dull  green-brown  of  khaki ;  the 
jungle  alive  with  reserves  exchanging  poisoned  salads 
of  metal;  science  against  primal  lust;  seasoned  courage 
against  fanaticism ;  yellow  sky  above,  yellow  sand 
beneath;  blood-letting  between,  and  the  eternal  jungle  on 
every  hand.  It  was  a  battle  to  haunt  and  debase  a 
watcher's  brain. 

"  I  did  not  know  Tarrant's  prowess  until  that  day. 
One  man  might  falter  in  his  command,  but  the  lines 
were  rigid  as  steel.  His  trumpeter  interpreted  every 
movement  of  the  commander's  lips.  I  pawed  the 
matting  of  the  hut,  but  could  not  lift  the  anchorage  of 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  27 

my  hips.  Rawder  stood  above  me,  watching,  the  lines 
of  his  sweating  face  weaving  with  sorrow.  The  thing 
was  growing  upon  me — what  the  end  of  the  fight  would 
mean  to  him — but  his  sad  face  was  clean  of  all  fear. 
Years  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy  and  loved  physical  courage, 
I  should  have  worshipped  that  clean  look  of  his.  Tears 
in  his  eyes  for  the  men  who  had  brutalized  him!  .  .  . 

"  There  is  always  a  last  minute  to  a  fight,  Miss 
Noreen, — when  each  force  puts  forth  its  final  flicker  of 
courage,  and  the  lesser  zeal  is  killed.  The  last  drain  of 
gameness  wins  the  battle,  when  strength  and  strategy 
are  gone.  It  wins  for  spiders  and  boys  and  armies. 
Tarrant  had  it  ...  When  it  was"  all  over,  the  men 
of  Rawder's  troop  saw  him  in  the  doorway  and  rushed 
forward. 

"  '  Mr.  Routledge,'  he  said  softly,  '  they  are  coming 
for  me.  The  boys  have  spoiled  my  mission  here.' 

"  His  hand  touched  my  forehead.  The  ghastly  illness 
left  me.  ...  I  don't  believe  in  telling  a  lady  a 
story  which  one  would  refrain  from  telling  his  fellow 
war-scribes,  Miss  Noreen,  but  believe  me,  you  have 
impelled  it  with  perfect  listening " 

"  His  hand  touched  your  forehead,"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,  and  there  was  something  about  the  touch  that 
a  dealer  in  war-stuff  could  not  very  well  enlarge  upon 
in  print.  At  one  moment  I  was  but  the  shell  of  a  man — - 
and  the  next  I  could  rise. 

"  Rawder's  old  troop  was  running  forward  to  finish 
him — Tarrant  in  the  lead.  I  tried  to  make  them  hear— 
these  white  men,  as  they  rushed  in,  full  of  the  hang-over 
hell  of  a  fight.  But  they  would  not  hear  me.  The  men 
saw  only  the  crown  of  a  great  day — to  kill  the  deserter 


28  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

who  had  led  the  Tagals  against  them  in  Luzon — Rawder, 
the  renegade,  whom  they  believed  stood  also  behind  the 
deaths  of  last  night  and  this  day.  To  kill  him  after 
whipping  the  Mindayans  would  call  down  the  glory  of 
the  Pantheon.  .  .  .  Rawder  stepped  back,  smiling, 
empty  of  hand.  I  managed  to  trip  Tarrant  and  yell  the 
story  in  his  ears  as  he  fell.  A  top-sergeant  went  by  me 
with  a  native-knife.  .  .  .  The  fluids  were  running 
from  the  man  who  had  saved  me,  before  Tarrant  or  I 
could  intervene,  but  the  rest  were  stopped. 

"  Hours  afterward,  in  the  night,  he  regained  con 
sciousness.  At  least,  consciousness  wavered  in  his  eyes, 
and  I  bent  to  hear,  '  I  am  not  yet  to  die.'  .  .  . 

"  And  it  was  true,  Miss  Noreen,  in  spite  of  a  fearful 
wound — but  that  is  all  healed.  .  .  .  Tarrant  was 
relieved  from  Minday.  Back  in  Manila,  we  learned  that 
the  real  renegade  of  lower  Luzon  had  been  captured 
alive  by  volunteer  infantry.  His  name  is  Devlin,  and  he 
is  since  notorious  in  Luzon  story.  Through  Tarrant, 
whom  I  saturated  with  the  substance  of  Rawder's  char 
acter,  my  bravest  man  was  discharged  for  disability. 
.  .  .  A  month  ago,  I  left  him  on  the  Hong  Kong 
water-front.  He  had  found  night-work  among  the 
sailors — saving  them  from  the  human  vultures  who  prey 
upon  poor  Jack-ashore-with-money-in-his-pocket — hard, 
evil- judged  work,  but  the  only  kind  that  Rawder  knows 
so  far.  Many  a  drugged  or  drunken  sailor  has  awakened 
on  board  his  own  ship  with  a  tithe  of  his  earnings  and 
a  whole  skin  left,  to  wonder  vaguely  in  after  voyages 
who  was  his  strange-voiced,  gentle-handed  protector — 
the  last  he  remembered  in  Hong  Kong.  .  .  .  Rawder 
told  me  I  should  find  him  in  India  next — said  that  he  was 


In  Cheer  Street,  London  29 

called  to  the  heart  of  India  by  a  dream.  He  is  to  find  his 
teacher.  ...  Is  it  beyond  belief  to  you,  Miss 
Noreen,  that  there  is  a  great  meaning  in  this  Indian 
shadow  which  has  fallen  upon  my  bravest  man?  I  have 
known  Hindus  who  could  look  beyond  the  flesh  of  men — 
despised  by  their  own  race — and  discover  souls  of 
stirring  evolution  and  inspiring  purity." 

Jerry  Cardinegh  entered.  Noreen  caught  her  breath 
quickly,  as  if  suddenly  awakened  from  a  dream. 

"  I  feel  that  some  time  I  shall  see  your  bravest  man, 
Routledge-san,"  she  whispered. 


FIRST  CHAPTER 

MOTHER  INDIA  IS  SAID  TO  BE  QUIVERING  WITH 

HATRED  FOR  HER  WHITE  CHILD,  THE 

BRITISH  FOUNDLING 

THE  dusk  was  stretching  out  over  the  windy  hills. 
There  had  been  a  skirmish  that  day  in  upper  India.  Two 
British  columns  which  had  campaigned  for  months  apart 
telescoped  with  frightful  sounds  of  gladness.  Her 
Majesty's  foot-soldiers,  already  tightly  knotted  about 
their  supper-fires,  hooted  the  cavalrymen  who  were  still 
struggling  with  halter-shanks,  picket-lines,  and  mounts 
that  pounded  the  turf  and  nickered  sky-high  for  the 
feed-wagons  to  come  in.  Every  puff  of  wind  bore  a 
new  smell — coffee,  camels,  leather,  gun-reek,  cigarettes, 
saddle-blankets,  and  nameless  others.  To-morrow  there 
would  be  a  mile  square  of  hill-pasture  so  tainted  by  man 
and  beast  that  a  native-bullock  would  starve  before 
cropping  there  until  the  season  of  torrents  soaked  it 
sweet  again. 

The  civilian  correspondents  grouped  together  for 
mess.  There  was  Bingley  of  the  Thames,  respected  but 
not  loved,  and  rather  better  known  as  the  "  Horse- 
killer  " — a  young  man  of  Napoleonic  ambition  and 
Cowperish  gloom.  There  was  Finacune  of  the  Word, 
who  made  a  florid  romance  of  war-stuff,  garnished  his 
battle-fields  with  palms  and  ancient  temples,  and  would 
no  more  forget  his  moonlight  than  the  estimate  of  the 
number  slaia  Finacune  made  a  red-blooded  wooer  out 
30 


The  Hatred  of  India  31 

of  the  British  army,  and  a  brown,  full-breasted  she-devil 
out  of  the  enemy.  His  story  of  the  campaign  was  a 
courtship  of  these  two,  and  it  read  like  "  A  Passion  in 
the  Desert,"  for  which  the  Word  paid  him  well  and  loved 
him  mightily.  Finacune  had  another  inimitable  peculiar 
ity.  He  possessed  one  of  those  slight,  natty  figures  which 
even  civilized  clothes  cannot  spoil;  and  he  could  emerge 
from  thirty  days  in  the  field,  dapper  and  sartorially  fit 
as  from  a  morning's  fox-hunt. 

Then  there  were  Feeney  and  Trollope  and  Talliaferro, 
who  carry  trays  and  announce  carriages  in  this  narrative, 
though  high  priests  of  the  press  and  Londoners  of  mark. 

The  point  of  the  gathering  was  old  Jerry  Cardinegh, 
of  the  Witness,  by  profession  dean  of  the  cult  of  the 
British  word-painters  of  war,  but  a  Tyrone  patriot,  bone 
and  brain  and  passion.  Just  now,  old  Jerry  was  taking  a 
dry  smoke,  two  ounces  of  Scotch,  commanding  his 
servants  to  beat  a  bull-cheek  into  tenderloin,  and  adorning 
the  part  of  master  of  ceremonies.  Cardinegh  wore  easily 
a  triple  fame :  first,  and  always  first,  for  the  quality  of 
his  work ;  second,  for  having  seen  more  of  war  (twenty- 
seven  campaigns  since  he  messed  with  the  Chinese 
Gordon,  to  this  night  in  Bhurpal)  than  any  other  man 
on  the  planet ;  and  third  for  being  the  father  of  Noreen 
Cardinegh,  absolutely  the  loveliest  young  woman  mani 
festing  at  the  present  time  in  London.  The  old  man's 
tenderness  of  heart  for  Ireland  and  for  all  that  Ireland 
had  done  and  failed,  was  known  in  part  among  the 
scribes  and  Pharisees.  It  had  been  an  endless  matter  of 
humor  among  his  compatriots.  Just  now  Finacune 
remembered  the  stock  question  and  launched  it: 

"Jerry,  if  England  and  Ireland  went  to  war,  which 


32  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

would  be  your  home-office — London  Witness  or  Dublin 
Contemporary?  " 

Cardinegh  had  never  answered  twice  the  same. 
"  Neither,"  he  declared  lightly  now,  extracting  a  can  of 
kippered  herring  from  Finacune's  saddle-bags,  "  but  a 
captain's  tent,  during  such  times  as  I  wasn't  leading 
the  Irish  to  glory.  Have  you  an  opener?  I  need  a  relish 
to  cut  this  whiskey." 

"  The  old  war-horse  isn't  always  humorous,"  re 
marked  Bingley,  who  was  sitting  apart.  Bingley  always 
sat  apart,  lest  somebody  should  see  his  black  book  of 
notes  or  borrow  his  provisions. 

Trollope  turned  to  Finacune  with  a  whisper.  "  The 
dean  is  looking  ill.  Have  you  noticed  ?  " 

Finacune  nodded. 

"  It  would  be  a  heller  if  this  little  affair  in  the  hills 
should  prove  the  old  man's  last  campaign,"  Trollope 
drawled  softly. 

Another  figure  emerged  from  the  dusk,  and  Jerry 
Cardinegh  leaped  with  a  roar  into  the  arms  of  an  agile 
giant  in  a  great  frieze  coat.  For  a  moment  it  appeared 
as  if  the  two  were  in  deadly  conflict.  Pup-tents  were 
unpinned,  supper-kits  scattered,  native  servants  crawled 
off  as  from  a  duel  of  man-eaters,  and  the  saintly  camels 
lifted  their  heads  in  fresh  dismay.  It  was  a  good,  a 
relishable  greeting,  and  the  proper  way  for  men  who 
love  each  other  to  meet  after  prolonged  absence. 

"  Arise,  my  children,  and  kow-tow  to  Routledge,  your 
spiritual  father !  "  Cardinegh  commanded  at  last. 

All  but  Bingley  obeyed. 

"  Get  up,  you  young  scut,"  Jerry  called  ominously, 
"or  go  feed  with  the  camels." 


The  Hatred  of  India  33 

"  I  haven't  the  honor  of  knowing  the  gentleman," 
Bingley  said  without  rising. 

"  Better  read  your  history  some  more,"  the  dean 
observed,  turning  his  back  upon  the  young  lion  of  the 
Thames.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  resumed  with  an  oratorical 
pause,  "  behold  the  man  whom  the  Gods  formed  for  a 
war-correspondent — or  a  spy,  as  you  like — and  they 
tempered  him  in  hell's  fire  and  holy  water — the  Gods. 
Gentlemen,  this  is  Routledge,  who  knows  India  better 
than  any  of  you  know  London,  and  he's  an  American. 
This  is  Routledge,  who  rides  alone,  who  stays  afield  in 
times  of  peace  promoting  wars  for  us — and  more  wars. 
I  say,  Routledge,  when  were  you  home  last  ?  " 

"  Sit  down,  you  '  damaged  archangel/  "  Routledge 
said  laughingly.  "  I  sat  before  your  fireside  in  Cheer 
Street,  London,  little  more  than  a  year  ago." 

Hearing  the  name  of  the  newcomer,  the  "  Horse- 
killer  "  was  not  slow  to  gain  his  feet.  He  came  forward 
hastily,  the  sullenness  gone  from  his  face,  giving  place 
to  a  mixture  of  envy  and  admiration.  He  stared  long 
and  intently  at  the  gaunt  profile  of  Routledge.  Finacune 
saw  the  look  and  interpreted  it  for  his  own  pleasure  in 
these  words :  "  And  so  you  are  Routledge,  the,  just  now, 
so-called  greatest  of  all.  Well,  I  am  Bingley  of  the 
Thames.  I  have  surpassed  all  the  others  in  this  cam 
paign,  and  some  time  I  shall  measure  wit  and  grit  with 
you.  Meanwhile,  you  are  worth  cultivating."  And 
truly  enough  the  first  words  of  the  "  Horse-killer "  as 
he  extended  his  hand  were : 

"  I  am  Bingley  of  the  Thames,  Mr.  Routledge." 

"  I  have  both  seen  and  heard  of  your  work,  and 
8 


34  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

i 

admired  it,  Mr.  Bingley,"  Routledge  responded  cordially. 
"  It  is  good  to  know  you." 

"  And  I  have  heard  of  you,  too,"  Bingley  replied,  to 
the  delight  of  the  others. 

Routledge  embraced  several  old  friends,  but  to  most 
he  was  known  less  in  person  than  by  reputation.  He  had 
a  tendency  to  laugh  at  the  Powers  in  the  act  of  making 
war,  a  tendency  to  make  the  world  see  that  war  was  a 
hang-over  from  the  days  when  men  ate  their  flesh  hot 
from  the  kill,  not  from  the  fire.  Veiled  under  all  his 
work,  and  often  expressed  openly  in  a  stinging  line, 
was  his  conviction  that  war  was  a  ghastly  imposition  upon 
the  men  in  the  ranks.  This  was  considered  by  the  rest 
as  a  mere  mental  dissipation  of  a  truly  great  worker. 

A  certain  aloofness  added  to  the  mystery  and  enchant 
ment  of  the  man.  In  the  field,  he  would  attach  himself 
to  some  far-ranging  column  out  for  dirty  work,  choosing 
his  command  from  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  leader 
and  the  men ;  to  which  was  added  a  conception  of  India, 
her  topography,  strategies,  fighters,  and  her  methods  of 
thought  and  action  which  could  hardly  be  paralleled — 
outside  of  the  secret  service — in  any  British  mind. 

The  Review  invariably  kept  a  second  man  at  the 
heart  of  things  to  cover  the  routine,  so  that  Routledge 
could  follow  his  inclinations  for  hard-riding  and  bring 
in  his  wondrous  tales  of  far  chances,  night  attacks,  the 
enemy  at  first  hand,  the  faces  and  valor  of  the  few  who 
hearkened  to  the  swish  of  the  Reaper,  the  scream  from 
inert  flesh  as  the  spirit  flees  away — the  humor,  the  horror, 
the  hell  of  the  clash. 

It  is  an  axiom  of  the  craft  that  in  a  platoon  fighting 
for  its  life  there  is  all  the  grip  of  human  interest  that 


The  Hatred  of  India  35 

appals  in  the  collision  of  fifty-mile  battle-fronts;  and 
Routledge  played  the  lesser  game  to  the  seeds.  It  was 
said  of  him  that  he  could  crawl  into  the  soldier's  brain 
and  watch  the  machinery  falter  in  full  blast  and  break 
down.  Always  you  felt,  as  you  read  him,  that  he  had  a 
great  pity  for  the  ranker,  and  a  great  hate  for  the 
system  that  used  him. 

Where  the  Terrible  was  involved,  there  was  a  jolting 
energy  in  the  descriptive  powers  of  Routledge.  Even 
the  type  which  bore  his  messages  from  the  field  to  the 
streets  of  London  seemed  sometimes  vivid,  crackling 
characters  snapped  hot  from  the  reeking  centres  of  war. 
He  could  make  his  first  lines  stand  out  in  the  thick 
Review  columns  like  a  desert  sunset. 

At  the  end  of  a  campaign,  instead  of  seeking  the 
seductions  of  hero-worshipping  London,  Routledge 
would  drift,  possibly  disguised,  into  some  Indian  hot-bed, 
there  to  study  language,  occultism,  Borgian  poisons,  or 
Cleopatran  perfumes.  Tales  of  his  ways  and  his  work 
took  the  place  of  his  presence  at  home  in  times  of  peace. 
Some  traveller  coming  in  from  afar  would  relate  how 
Routledge  had  smiled  through  a  six-day  water- famine ; 
how  Routledge  had  missed  the  native  knives  which  find 
so  often  the  source  of  human  fountains  in  the  dark.  It 
was  whispered,  and  accredited,  that  the  Brahmins  called 
him  One;  that  they  remembered  him  as  great  and  dis 
tinguished  and  of  sacerdotal  caste  in  some  former  incar 
nation,  and  were  loyal  still.  This  is  an  honor  so  great 
that  there  are  not  five  score  men  in  all  the  Occident  who 
adequately  can  appreciate  it.  Mother  India  is  sensitive 
to  the  warming  currents  of  a  great  man,  even  though  he 
be  a  derelict  in  the  world. 


36  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Routledge  had  made  the  English-speaking  world 
utter  his  name  familiarly  and  to  look  for  the  same  in 
public  prints.  For  this  reason,  Finacune,  with  his  type 
writer  on  his  lap,  an  American  poncho  spread  upon  the 
turf  beneath  him,  his  back  against  a  stone,  and  a  lantern 
at  his  elbow,  rained  a  column  upon  his  machine.  Finish 
ing  the  work  with  a  half-smile,  he  hooted  aloud : 

"  Oh,  Routledge — see  what  comes  o'  riding  alone ! 
In  a  month  or  six  weeks,  God  loving  the  mails,  the  Word 
will  publish :  '  The  civilian  mess  was  joined  to-night  by 
that  young  roving  planet,  Cosmo  Routledge,  who  in 
present  and  former  campaigns  has  driven  straight  to 
the  source  of  exclusive  information  and  pulled  the  hole 
in  after  him.'  Then,  for  a  stick  or  two,  I  have  discussed 
the  great  frieze  coat,"  Finacune  added  whimsically, 
"  described  the  prophet's  brow,  the  slender  hands  of 
swift  eloquence,  and  the  sad,  ineffable  eyes  of  Routledge, 
born  of  America,  a  correspondent  for  the  British,  a 
citizen  of  the  world,  at  home  in  India,  and  mystic  of 
the  wars." 

"  Just  add,"  Cardinegh  remarked  meltingly,  "  that 
his  heart  beats  for  Ireland." 

That  was  a  marvellous  night.  Big  natures  throbbed 
in  rhythm.  Whiskey  as  it  sometimes  will — the  devil  of 
it — brought  out  the  brave  and  true  and  tender  of  human 
speech.  Routledge  told  a  bit  of  the  story  of  the  great 
frieze  coat.  .  .  .  They  were  moments  of  trampling 
violence  in  the  narrative ;  instants  of  torrid  romance — to 
which  the  wearer  had  been  a  witness  or  a  listener.  .  .  . 

"  Ah,  they  made  cloth  in  those  days,"  old  Jerry  sighed. 
"  Would  you  look  under  the  collar  of  it  for  the  name  ol 
the  old  Belfast  maker?" 


The  Hatred  of  India  37 

"  It's  there,  sure  enough,"  said  Routledge,  "  as  Tyrone 
is  water-marked  in  the  great  Cardinegh  scroll." 

Jerry  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  His  face  looked 
singularly  white  in  the  dark. 

"  The  dean  went  back  to  Ireland  just  before  we  came 
out  here  this  trip,"  growled  old  Feeney,  of  the  Pan-Anglo 
News  Service.  "  It  seems  he  couldn't  start  an  insurrec 
tion  there,  so  he  rushed  back  to  the  Witness  office  and 
haunted  the  cable-editor's  room  until  the  Bhurpalese 
took  pity  on  him  and  began  shooting  at  Tommies." 

Hours  passed  with  talk  and  laughter,  liquor  and  song. 
It  was  strictly  a  sight  session  of  the  inner  section  of 
war-painters;  and  in  spirit  the  high  priests  of  elder 
service  trooped  back  to  listen  among  me  low-hanging 
Indian  stars.  ...  It  was  knee-deep  in  the  morning 
hours  when  Routledge  and  Cardinegh  drew  apart  at 
last.  They  walked  out  between  the  snoring  lines, 
whispering : 

"  Jerry,  what  has  this  narrow-gauge  campaign  done 
to  you  ?  Fever  or  famine  ?  You  look  drawn  and  blown 
and  bleached." 

"  I  am  going  into  the  lair  after  this,"  Cardinegh  said. 
"  The  boys  won't  believe  it,  but  this  is  absolutely  my  last 
fling  at  the  field.  I  am  going  home  to  Noreen,  son,  and 
London  and  the  Witness  may  go  to  hell." 

There  was  unnatural  venom  in  the  old  man's  words. 
His  tightened  hands  stirred  restlessly;  his  eyes,  seen 
in  the  flare  of  a  match  as  he  lit  a  cigarette,  were  unquiet, 
alive  with  some  torture  of  tension.  Routledge  gripped 
the  vehement  arm. 

"  You  are  oxidizing  a  bit  too  much  tissue,  old  war- 
horse,"  he  said  quietly.  "  You'll  want  to  go  into  the 


38  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

meadows  for  a  while  when  you  get  back — but  you  won't 
stay  there.  This  stuff — the  smell  of  it,  as  now  in  the 
dawn-dew,  and  the  muttering  formations  presently  " — 
Routledge  waved  his  arm  over  the  bivouac — "  things 
like  this  won't  let  you  run  long  in  the  pasture.  When 
the  war-headings  begin  to  grow  on  the  front  pages  of 
the  Witness,  and  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand 
grows  and  blackens  into  a  mailed  fist  gripping  a  dagger — 
why,  you'll  be  at  the  lane-fence  nickering  for  harness." 

"  Routledge,  don't  go  over  all  that  rot  again,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  It  isn't  that  I'm  out  of  strength,  but  I'm 
too  full  of  hate  to  go  on.  I've  always  hated  this  smug 
English  people,  and  I'm  not  mellowing  with  years.  I 
feel  it  hotter  and  hotter — sometimes  I  feel  it  like  a 
running  incandescence  inside.  It  leaves  my  brain  charred 
and  noxious — that's  the  way  it  seems  to  me.  .  .  . 
Yet,  I  have  been  one  of  England's  first  aggrandizers.  I 
have  rejoiced  in  print  at  her  victories.  I  have  cheered 
with  the  low-browed  mob,  '  God  save  the  Queen ! '  I 
have  borne  the  brunt  of  her  wars — the  son  of  my  father! " 

Routledge  was  disturbed,  but  he  chuckled  softly. 
"  One  would  think  you  were  still  a  fire-brand  of  the 
Fenians,  Jerry." 

"  I  know  to  whom  I  am  talking,"  was  whispered 
queerly.  "  The  Fenians  are  not  dead  yet — not  all  the 
Fenians." 

"  When  did  you  hear  from  Miss  Noreen  last  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  a  fortnight.  We  ought  to  get  mail  at 
Madirabad.  ...  I  must  write.  My  God,  I  must 
write !  .  .  .  Don't  mind  me  if  I  ramble  a  bit,  Rout- 
ledge.  I  drank  rather  plenty  to  welcome  you  back. 
Whiskey  sizzles  along  my  spine  rather  faster  than  once 


The  Hatred  of  India  39 

upon  a  time.  .  .  .  And  you  haven't  seen  Noreen 
for ?" 

"  For  over  a  year,"  Routledge  said. 

"  And  you  haven't  heard  that  they  call  her  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  London  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Jerry.  I  heard  it  from  General  Falconer  at 
Bombay ;  from  the  Sewards  in  Simla ;  from  Bleakley, 
who  came  back  to  Hong  Kong  after  a  year's  leave  with 
a  made-over  liver  and  a  child-wife.  But  then  I  knew  it, 
Jerry — yes,  I  knew  it." 

"  But  she  burst  into  bloom  astonishingly  after  you 
left  us.  She  has  never  forgotten  you,  Routledge.  .  .  . 
She  is  like  the  Irish  girl  who  gave  her  to  me." 

"  Come  on  to  bed,  Jerry.  We  drive  like  carrion-birds 
across  the  world  wherever  there  is  blood  spilt  upon  the 
ground.  We're  not  fit  for  a  woman  to  remember." 

"  The  woman  who  gave  Noreen  to  me — could  remem 
ber  and  wait,  son!  .  .  .  Ah,  God,  the  red  hells  I 
have  passed  through !  " 

Routledge  reflected  upon  the  furious  emotions  which 
had  stormed  his  old  friend  in  a  ten  minutes'  walk.  From 
the  furnaces  of  British  hate,  he  had  swept  to  the  cold 
caverns  of  gloom  wherein  he  had  laid  the  wife  of  his 
youth.  Only  four  months  ago  he  had  left  Cardinegh 
hard,  full-blooded,  iron-gray.  The  dawn  showed  him 
now  a  bent,  ashen,  darting-eyed  old  man,  of  volatile 
but  uncentered  speech.  The  tragedy  of  it  all  was  germi 
nating  in  the  faculties  of  the  younger  man.  Moreover, 
with  a  thrilling  freshness,  the  night  and  the  return  to 
old  London  friends  had  brought  back  his  own  memo 
ries.  ..."  She  has  never  forgotten  you,  Rout- 
ledge  !  "  .  .  Nor  had  he  forgotten  the  pale,  exqui- 


40  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

site  face  of  Noreen,  large-eyed  with  listening  under  the 
lamp  in  Cheer  Street.  Her  every  change  of  expression 
recurred  to  him ;  and  for  each  phase  of  the  story  he  had 
related,  there  had  been  different  ranges  of  sorrow  and 
sympathy. 

In  the  queer,  sensitive  mood,  Routledge  tried  to  put 
away  his  memories.  Only  a  God  was  fit  to  mate  with 
this  moment's  conception  of  Noreen  Cardinegh,  as  he 
stood  with  her  father  in  the  new  day,  already  defiled 
by  the  sprawled  army.  He  wished  that  he  had  not  seen 
so  much  of  war.  Fate  had  put  a  volume  of  battles  into 
the  binding  of  his  brain.  In  the  very  centres  of  his  life, 
series  upon  series  of  the  world's  late  and  horrible  tableaux 
had  been  imprinted.  Routledge  was  impressed  with  the 
queer  thought  that  such  pictures  must  dull  the  delicacy 
of  a  man  and  sear  the  surface  of  his  soul,  like  lava  over 
running  a  vineyard  of  Italy. 

"  Will  you  go  home  after  this  little  thing  is  over  ?  " 
Jerry  asked  suddenly. 

"  Yes,  and  it  won't  be  long." 

"You  wizard! — what  do  you  mean?"  Cardinegh 
muttered,  with  a  start. 

"  I  mean  the  present  bubble  is  just  about  to  be 
pricked." 

"  I — at  least,  the  boys — supposed  this  campaign  to  be 
but  nicely  on !  "  Cardinegh's  voice  was  a  husky  whisper, 
and  his  hand  had  gripped  the  sleeve  of  the  other.  "  Tell 
me  what  you  know !  " 

"  Softly,  Jerry !  "  The  voice  of  Routledge  was  inau 
dible  two  feet  from  his  lips.  "  It's  all  rumor — indefinite, 
ungrippable,  as  if  the  clouds  had  whispered  it — and  yet 
there  is  something  big  behind  it  all.  Down  in  Calcutta, 


The  Hatred  of  India  41 

the  seats  of  the  mighty  are  trembling.  British  India — 
take  it  from  me — is  too  agitated  by  some  discovery 
within,  or  revelation  from  without,  to  bother  much 
further  with  a  little  native  rebellion  like  this.  And  yet 
even  this  may  have  its  relation  to  the  big  trouble.  A 
native  paper  has  dared  to  print  this  sentence — a  good 
sentence,  by  the  way :  *  Mother  India  is  quivering  with 
hatred  for  her  white  child,  the  British  foundling ! ' 
Would  a  Hindu  journalist  dare  to  print  that  without 
real  or  fancied  backing  ?  '  Unauthoritative,  but  impor 
tant  if  true,'  as  the  Review  says,  is  my  own  idea.  It  is 
this:  Russian  spies  have  insinuated  themselves  some 
where  into  the  arcanum  of  British  India;  the  Bear  has 
lumbered  off  with  information  that  is  already  pulling  the 
English  forces  into  defense — from  bigger  game  than  the 
Bhurpalese.  If  Russia  is  arming  the  Border  States  and 
has  secured  information  of  the  fire-brand  sort  against 
England — the  latter  is  a  good  deal  like  a  shorn  Samson 
just  now — throwing  so  much  power  in  little  Bhurpal! 
.  .  .  Something's  askew.  There's  a  rival  in  the 
north.  .  .  .  It's  all  vague,  vague,  but  big — big  as  Asia ! 
.  .  .  Listen  to  an  amateur  prophet,  old  Ironsides : 
if  we  live  three  years,  we'll  see  a  collision  of  fifty-mile 
battle-fronts !  " 

They  were  back  in  the  civilian  camp.  Cardinegh 
did  not  speak,  but  his  face  was  mad  with  excitement, 
his  hands  ungovernable. 


SECOND  CHAPTER 

THE  BAFFLING  INDIAN  MYSTERY  IS  DISCUSSED 

BY  FOUR  MEN  WHO  SHOULD  HAVE 

BEEN  FIRST  TO  SOLVE  IT 

THE  Powers  are  held  together  with  links  not  welded 
by  hands.  The  strain  upon  the  weaker  links  sets  to 
quivering  the  entire  cable  of  civilization.  Certain  sec 
tions  of  the  system  grind  constantly  against  each  other, 
and  inevitably  there  comes  a  period  when  snapping  is 
imminent.  At  such  a  time  the  two  material  forces  draw 
apart  for  defense.  Frequently  peace  is  preserved  by 
silent  affronts  of  power;  frequently  by  an  easing  of 
tension  on  either  hand,  a  more  comfortable  adjustment 
of  boundaries,  and  thick  applications  of  the  lubricant, 
diplomacy.  The  time  is  critical,  however,  and  in  either 
background  the  engines  of  war  are  assembled  against 
the  crisis. 

Something  had  happened  in  India.  It  was  retching 
for  outlet  at  Calcutta,  seething  through  Indian  provinces. 
London  and  St.  Petersburg  were  jerking  with  its  start 
ling  galvanism.  The  correspondents  afield  in  Bhurpal 
began  to  sense  this  mysterious  friction,  but  could  get  no 
word  nor  line  on  the  truth.  Rumors  were  thick  as 
confetti  in  Mardi  Gras.  Rumors  ran  through  all  shades 
of  dreaming  and  shapes  of  reason.  One  story  was  that 
China  had  wiped  out  the  foreign  concessions  from  Hong 
Kong  to  Vladivostok  and  had  challenged  the  world  to 
war;  another  that  Russian  armies  were  swarming  over 
42 


The  Baffling  Indian  Mystery  43 

the  Himalayas,  and  that  all  India  stood  ready  to  back 
the  Russian  Bear  against  the  British  Lion ;  that  England 
would  call  upon  Japan  and  the  United  States,  and  Russia 
demand  the  alliance  of  the  French  and  Germans;  in 
short,  that  there  would  be  a  merry  manifestation  of  hell 
around  the  world. 

Routledge  tarried  but  one  day  with  the  civilian  outfit. 
He  had  been  gone  but  forty-eight  hours,  with  Bulwer- 
Shinn's  cavalry,  when  the  rousing  mystery  which  he  had 
intimated  to  Jerry  Cardinegh  in  their  brief  night  walk, 
began  to  be  felt  by  the  army  and  its  followers.  That 
which  was  known  in  the  secret  councils  of  Calcutta  and 
London  never  reached  the  field,  but  the  results  did. 
The  campaign  came  to  an  abrupt  close.  The  hand  behind 
history  beckoned ;  and  arteries  of  horse,  guns,  and  infan 
try,  running  like  lines  of  red  ink  over  the  map  of  Bhurpal, 
were  bottled  up  into  garrisons  to  wait.  The  petty  insur 
rection  in  the  hills,  which  had  called  the  soldiers  and 
scribes  to  action  after  a  bleak  stretch  of  peace,  was  as 
remotely  forgotten  as  the  vagaries  of  a  fever  past. 

One  after  another  the  correspondents  were  recalled — 
uneasy,  irritable,  their  work  half-done  and  wholly  lustre 
less.  All  their  cables  of  the  last  days  (messages  that 
hinted  some  grave  international  lesion ;  the  strained, 
dwarfed  results  of  minds  that  searched  the  stars  and 
the  soil  for  truth)  were  either  stopped  in  the  sending 
or  answered  by  a  crisp  word  that  nothing  more  of  the 
sort  was  wanted.  This  was  heart-breaking. 

Feeney,  Finacune,  Trollope,  and  Talliaferro  had  fore 
gathered  on  the  veranda  of  the  Bengal  Hotel  in  Calcutta. 
They  were  awaiting  ship  for  Madras,  Bombay,  and 
Home.  It  was  ten  days  after  the  big  social  night  in 


44  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Bhurpal,  and  early  in  January,  1902.  Trollope  had  pro 
mulgated  a  theory.  It  was  a  full-rigged,  painstakingly- 
ballasted  theory,  involving  hours  of  heavy  work  in  a 
smutty,  sweltering  coach  on  the  way  down  from  Madira- 
bad,  and  Trollope  was  a  heavy  man  who  drew  heat — 
"  the  Blue  Boar,"  a  few  intimates  dared  to  call  him. 
The  theory  contained  a  discriminating  opinion,  weighed 
to  a  dram,  on  the  cause  of  the  sudden  scatter  of  troops 
from  field  to  garrison,  and  undertook  to  interpret  the 
pregnant  undertone  of  disorder  which  whispered  across 
the  empire.  A  cablegram  from  his  paper,  the  Examiner, 
had  just  been  delivered,  and  was  spread  out  upon  the 
table  before  the  others.  Trollope  was  breathing  hard. 

"  Can't  use  theory  matter,"  the  dispatch  read.  "  Cam 
paign  closed  issue." 

Trollope  looked  up  presently  and  found  awaiting  his 
eyes  three  wide,  indulgent  smiles.  Trollope  was  so 
seldom  disconcerted  that  he  now  furnished  an  enjoyable 
moment  for  the  others. 

"  Cheer  up,  fat  boy,"  observed  Finacune.  "  Your  old 
man  always  was  a  ruffian.  The  Word  handed  me  the 
same  thing  when  I  undertook  to  explain  to  the  boarding- 
schools  of  London  what  this  reverse  was  all  about,  only 
the  Word  did  it  in  a  refined,  delicate  way.  You  know 
I  dreamed  it  all  out  that  Russia  had  come  to  pay  court  to 
Mother  India,  and  that  there  was  a  hitch  about  Tommy 
Atkins  acting  the  best  man " 

"  It  was  the  only  decent  thing  I  sent  in  from  the 
campaign,"  Trollope  growled. 

"  They  know  more  about  it  at  Home  than  we  do,"  said 
Feeney,  the  saturnine,  a  confirmed  wanderer,  next  to 
Cardinegh  in  years  of  service.  He  had  searched  the 


The  Baffling  Indian  Mystery  45 

world  for  forty  years  to  watch  the  crises  of  human 
events. 

Finacune  inquired  with  a  trace  of  animation,  "  We've 
all  four  been  recalled,  haven't  we  ?  " 

The  others  disdained  to  answer,  but  Finacune  went  on 
airily.  "  We  are  experts — picked  men — the  choice  of 
Europe  to  cover  the  turmoils  of  India  and  elsewhere. 
None  stand  beside  us.  Is  this  the  truth  or  not?  " 

It  was  acclaimed  that  this  was  plucked  from  the  orig 
inal  garland  of  truth. 

"  Now,"  the  Word  man  asserted,  "  we  find  our  cables, 
our  expert  and  expensive  cables,  not  cut,  not  filed  for 
reference,  not  even  trusted  to  the  janitor's  basket,  but, 
so  far  as  we  know,  burned  unborn!  .  .  .  We  have 
xeceived  no  explanation.  We  are  not  even  told  that  we 
have  done  well  or  ill." 

"  I  was  told  to  shut  up  and  come  home,"  drawled 
Trollope. 

"  The  same  pellet  in  different  coatings  is  being 
absorbed  in  the  systems  of  three  of  us  present,"  Finacune 
added.  "  Listen.  I've  got  a  theory.  England  is 
menaced  by  her  logical  enemy  from  the  North.  Some 
brilliant  coup  has  been  executed  by  the  Russian  spies, 
or  else  there  has  been  treachery.  I  make  no  pretension  of 
knowing  just  what  has  happened.  Any  way,  it  is  big 
enough  to  make  our  native  rebellion  look  like  a  flicker 
in  a  holocaust.  The  trouble  is  so  big  that  it  must  be  kept 
from  the  world,  from  the  English  people,  from  all  but 
the  Engine-room  of  England!  We  are  muzzled,  and 
our  papers  are  muzzled.  In  a  word,  the  crisis  is  so  big 
that  the  Press  has  rallied  around  the  Throne — to  keep 
the  matter  dark !  " 


46  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

There  was  considerable  comment  after  this.  The 
atmosphere  was  charged  with  earnestness.  The  belief 
grew  that  the  clear-headed  little  humorist,  Finactme,  had 
pricked  the  pith  of  the  question.  The  situation  furnished 
certain  gorgeous  playthings  for  discussion.  The  idea 
that  the  Czar's  secret  service,  either  through  the  purchase 
of  a  traitor  or  some  miraculous  thievery,  had  secured 
information  explosive  enough  to  blow  out  the  British 
underpinnings  from  India,  amounted  to  a  huge  and  awful 
conception  in  the  English  mind.  Even  the  pale,  listless 
Talliaferro,  the  stately  Commonwealth's  "  Excalibur," 
stirred  restlessly. 

There  was  sharp  scattering  of  gravel  along  the  drive 
way,  and  the  four  turned  to  see  Jerry  Cardinegh  riding 
out  on  a  gray  gelding  of  splendid  style  and  power.  He 
sped  by  at  a  fast  rack,  bending  forward  in  the  saddle, 
his  white,  haggard  face  in  vivid  profile  against  the  vine- 
hung  wall  to  his  right.  His  gloved  left  hand  held  the 
bridle-rein  with  the  rigidity  of  an  artificial  member. 
His  shoulders  did  not  seem  to  fill  the  coat  he  wore ;  his 
body  looked  little  and  shrunken  on  the  huge  beast;  his 
lips  moved.  ...  In  the  mind  of  each  one  of  the 
four,  queerly  enough,  was  lastingly  imprinted  this  flying 
glimpse  of  the  well-loved  dean  as  he  swung  out  of  the 
drive  on  to  the  Jasper  Road. 

"  Speaking  of  wanting  to  know  a  thing,"  observed 
Trollope,  "  I  should  like  to  know  what  is  pulling  down 
the  old  man." 

"  We've  all  got  to  break,"  said  Feeney  gloomily. 
"  Jerry's  breaking  the  approved  way  like  a  good  machine 
whose  parts  are  of  equal  tensile  strength." 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  possible,"  cam?  from  Finacune 


The  Baffling  Indian  Mystery  47 

slowly,  "  for  the  dean  to  have  a  line  on  the  mystery,  and 
that  it  is  so  desperate — you  know  there  are  some  situa 
tions  so  desperate — that  if  one  looks  them  straight  in 
the  face  he  is  never  the  same  afterward." 

"  Any  international  disturbance  that  could  throw  old 
Jerry  Cardinegh  off  his  feet,  or  off  his  feed,  would  have 
to  concern  Ireland,"  observed  Feeney. 

Trollope  took  up  the  subject.  "  It  was  after  that 
night  that  Routledge  dropped  in  upon  us  in  Bhurpal — 
that  Jerry  began  really  to  tear  down.  They  had  a  talk 
together  after  we  turned  in." 

"  Who  should  know  the  real  thing — if  not  that  demon 
Routledge,  who  rides  alone  ?  "  Feeney  questioned. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Trollope,  clapping  his  hands  for 
a  servant,  "  we  sail  to-night  for  Home.  By  the  grace 
of  the  weird  god  of  wars,  we'll  be  in  London,  at  the 
Army  and  Navy  Reception,  within  a  month.  Possibly 
then  we  shall  be  trusted  with  the  secret  which  our  papers 
dare  not  trust  to  the  cable — the  secret  that  is  gnawing  at 
the  vitals  of  who  shall  say  how  many  Powers?  In  the 
meantime,  let  us  all  drink  to  the  man  who  wrote  of 
England's  wars — save  the  deathless  Feeney  here — when 
we  were  just  learning  to  read  fairy-tales — drink  to  the 
man  who  just  rode  by !  " 

"  May  I  add  a  line,  Trollope  ?  "  Finacune  asked,  as 
the  pegs  were  brought. 

The  "  Blue  Boar  "  nodded. 

"  When  it  comes  time,"  said  Finacune,  "  for  the  man 
who  just  rode  by  to  finish  his  last  battle — which  we  all 
lose — may  he  pass  out  from  the  arms  of  the  most  beau 
tiful  woman  in  London — his  daughter!  " 

They  drank  standing. 


48  Koutledge  Rides  Alone 

Old  Feeney  broke  the  silence  which  followed.  They 
saw  in  an  instant  that  he  had  something  big  to  impart — 
and  that  there  was  joy  in  the  telling. 

"  The  Pan- Anglo  Agency  of  stripped  news  which  I 
have  the  honor  to  represent,  sent  me  a  little  story  this 
morning,"  he  declared,  with  the  thin,  cold  smile  which 
they  all  knew. 

"  Feeney,  you  dead  planet,  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  have  got  a  ray  of  light  left  ?  "  Finacune  asked.  The 
two  were  very  hearty  friends. 

"  The  Press  has  rallied  about  the  Throne,  as  you 
say,  my  emotional  young  friend,"  Feeney  went  on 
blandly,  "but  the  Throne  in  the  interim  has  turned  one 
of  the  smoothest  tricks  known  to  diplomacy — all  in  the 
dark,  mind  you — one  of  the  deepest  diplomatic  inspira 
tions  ever  sprung  in  the  law  and  gospel  of  empire-build 
ing.  Let  us  say  that  some  one,  by  a  bit  of  treachery, 
has  thrown  Afghanistan's  fighting  power  to  the  Russians, 
lifting  it  out  of  the  English  control.  Also  let  us  grant 
that  Russia,  confident  of  this  bulk,  is  waving  the  fire 
brand  along  the  whole  northern  border  of  British  India — 
plunging  those  sullen  native  states  into  rebellion — and 
telling  them  why !  All  lower  India,  people  of  the  plains, 
will  respond  to  the  disorder.  It  has  been  a  case  of  waiting 
for  a  full  century — waiting  for  the  exact  moment  for 
insurrection.  India  is  the  prize  waiting  people.  They 
build  for  eternity.  In  a  word,  my  sweet  children  of  a 
battle  or  two,  England  faces  a  great  war — with  all  India 
energized  by  Russia — a  ten-to-one  shot !  " 

Feeney  sat  back  and  smiled  at  the  vine  which  had 
been  the  background  for  Jerry  Cardinegh's  passing. 
The  others  squirmed  impatiently. 


The  Baffling  Indian  Mystery  49 

**  What  does  England  do  in  a  case  like  this  ?  "  old 
Feeney  requested  at  length.  .  .  .  "  O  glorious  Eng 
land — O  my  England  of  wisdom  and  inspiration!  Does 
England  say,  '  Let  us  fight  Russia  if  we  must '  ?  .  .  . 
No,  my  fellow-sufferers ;  England  looks  at  the  map  of 
the  world.  The  heads  of  her  various  top-departments  in 
London  draw  together.  I  mean  her  Home,  Colonialv 
and  Foreign  offices.  One  of  those  mute  inglorious  Glad 
stones  finds  an  old  petition  that  has  been  laughed  at  and 
thrust  aside  for  months.  It  is  from  Japan.  It  is  read 
and  re-read  aloud.  The  unsung  Gladstone  of  the  outfit 
makes  a  sizzling  suggestion.  Japan  has  asked  for  an 
Anglo-Japanese  alliance.  With  a  turn  of  a  pen  it  is 
done.  What  does  this  mean,  my  brothers  ?  " 

The  thoughtful  Talliaferro  deigned  to  speak :  "  Japan 
committed  harakiri — that  is,  many  of  the  young,  impul 
sive  flowers  of  the  army  and  navy  did — seven  years  ago, 
when  Russia  led  the  Triple  Alliance  and  looted  the 
trophies,  including  Port  Arthur,  from  Japan's  victory 
over  China.  With  England's  moral  support  in  an  alli 
ance,  Japan  will  start  a  war  with  Russia  to  get  her 
trophies  back.  I've  got  an  idea  that  Japan  thinks  she 
can  whip  Russia." 

Talliaferro  talked  so  seldom  that  he  was  well  listened 
to. 

The  ancient  Feeney  clapped  his  hands.  "  If  you  had 
the  nerve  to  follow  troops  in  action,  that  you  have  in 
world-politics,  Talliaferro,  you'd  have  us  all  whipped," 
he  said.  "  You've  got  it  exactly.  The  insulation  has  long 
been  worn  off  between  Russia  and  Japan,  specifically 
between  Korea  and  Manchuria.  Japan,  looted  of  her 
spoils  from  the  Chinese  war,  is  one  vast  serpent's  tooth 
4 


50  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

for  Russia.  With  England's  moral  support — I  say  moral 
support — Japan  will  tackle  Russia  and  sing  anthems  for 
the  chance." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  such  an  alliance  is  signed  ?  " 
Finacune  asked  excitedly,  and  Trollope  was  leaning  for 
ward. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Feeney  quietly.  "  The  Pan-Anglo 
wired  me  the  story  to-day,  and  the  Pioneer  here  will 
print  it  to-morrow  morning.  Japan  will  now  make 
demands  of  Russia  that  will  force  a  war.  That  will  pull 
Russia  up  from  England's  India  borders.  Some  diplo 
macy,  that  alliance,  my  boys!  England  has  jockeyed 
Russia  out  of  her  aggression ;  rendered  helpless  the  idea 
of  rebellion  in  India  because  Russian  support  is  needed 
there ;  England  has  put  half  of  Asia  between  her  boun 
daries  and  the  possibility  of  war !  The  absolute  splendor 
of  the  whole  matter  is  that  England  calls  her  unheard-of 
alliance  with  Japan — -a  movement  for  the  preservation 
of  Chinese  and  Korean  integrity!  I  ask  you  in  all  truth 
and  soberness — as  Saint  Paul  said — isn't  this  humor  for 
the  high  and  lonely  gods  ?  " 


ROUTLEDGE  RELATES  HOW  A  MASTER  CAME  DOWN 

FROM   THE    GOODLY  MOUNTAINS   TO  FIND 

HIS  CHELA  IN  THE  BURNING  PLAINS 

ROUTLEDGE  parted  from  Bulwer-Shinn's  cavalry  at 
Madirabad  and  reached  Calcutta  two  days  before  the 
others,  except  Bingley,  who  was  but  a  couple  of  hours 
behind  him — just  enough  for  the  latter  to  miss  the  boat 
Routledge  had  taken  to  Bombay.  The  "  Horse-killer  " 
took  himself  mighty  seriously  in  this  just-miss  matter, 
and  was  stirred  core-deep.  He  wanted  to  have  the  first 
word  in  London  as  well  as  the  last  word  in  India.  He 
had  studied  the  matter  of  the  mystery  with  his  peculiar 
zeal,  cabling  his  point  of  view  in  full.  So  rapidly  had 
he  moved  down,  however,  that  he  missed  a  cable  from 
the  Thames,  hushing  further  theories.  It  was  with  rage 
that  he  determined  to  railroad  across  India  and  regain  the 
lost  time,  possibly  catch  a  ship  ahead  of  Routledge  at 
Bombay.  This  was  the  man  he  feared  at  home  and  afield, 
in  work  and  play. 

Bingley  must  not  be  misunderstood.  He  was  a  very 
important  war-man,  a  mental  and  physical  athlete, 
afraid  of  few  things — least  of  all,  work.  Such  men  are 
interesting,  sometimes  dangerous.  Bingley  was  honest  in 
material  things;  on  occasion,  hatefully  so.  He  was  the 
least  loved  of  the  English  war-correspondents,  and  one 
of  the  most  famous.  He  envied  the  genial  love  which  the 
name  of  Routledge  so  generally  inspired;  envied  the 

51 


52  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

triumphs  of  the  "  mystic,'  as  Finacune  had  called  him ; 
copied  the  Routledge-method  of  riding  frequently  alone, 
but  found  it  hopeless  to  do  so  and  preserve  the  regard  of 
his  contemporaries.  The  careless  manner  with  which 
Routledge  achieved  high  results  was  altogether  beyond 
Bingley,  as  well  as  the  capacity  of  seeming  to  forget  the 
big  things  he  had  done.  It  was  necessary  for  Bingley 
to  be  visibly  triumphant  over  his  coups;  indeed,  pene 
tratingly  so.  This  failure  of  manner,  and  a  certain 
genius  for  finding  his  level  on  the  unpopular  side  of  a 
question,  challenged  the  dislike  of  his  kind. 

Routledge  settled  himself  for  the  long  voyage  with 
much  to  think  about  and  Carlyle's  "  French  Revolution  " 
— already  read  on  many  seas.  Ordinarily,  a  mystery 
such  as  he  had  left  in  India  would  have  furnished  material 
for  deep  contemplation,  but  he  chose  to  put  it  away  from 
him  and  to  live  in  full  the  delights  of  a  returning  exile. 
Bombay  was  agog  with  the  Anglo- Japanese  Alliance,  but 
Routledge  did  not  give  the  subject  more  than  one  of 
his  days  out  of  the  last  Indian  port.  He  missed  nothing 
of  the  significance  of  this  great  move  by  England,  which 
had  so  entranced  Feeney,  but  when  he  undertook  to 
delve  for  the  first  cause  his  faculties  became  lame  and 
tired,  and  he  had  learned  too  well  the  therapeutics  of  sea- 
travel  to  continue  an  aimless  grind.  An  accomplished 
traveller,  he  put  aside  all  wastes  of  hurry  and  anxiety 
and  allowed  his  days  and  nights  to  roll  together  without 
the  slightest  wear.  Consequently,  big  volumes  of  tissue 
were  renovated  and  rebound.  With  Routledge,  it  was 
not  "  To-morrow  we  will  be  at  Port  Said,"  but  a  possible 
reflection  to-day  that  "  we  are  somewhere  in  the  Red 
Sea."  Frequently,  he  read  entire  nights  away ;  or  dozed 


How  a  Master  Came  Down  53 

from  midnight  until  dawn,  wrapped  in  a  rug  on  deck. 
His  brain  fell  into  a  dreamy  state  of  unproductiveness, 
until  he  could  scarcely  recall  that  it  had  ever  been  a 
rather  imperious  ruler  of  crises;  a  producer  of  piled 
words  which  developed,  in  war's  own  pigments,  the 
countless  garish  and  ghastly  films  which  his  eye  had 
caught.  The  month  at  sea  smoothed  the  hard  lines  of 
service  from  his  face,  as  it  softened  the  calluses  of  his 
bridle-hand. 

It  was  not  until  the  dusk,  when  his  boat  steamed  into 
the  shipping  before  Marseilles,  that  the  old  click-click 
of  his  mental  tension  was  resumed  and  the  thought-lights 
burned  strong  again.  He  found  then  that  much  which 
had  been  vague  and  unreckonable  at  Calcutta  was  cleared 
and  finished,  as  often  so  pleasantly  happens  after  a  season 
of  prdaya,  as  the  Hindus  express  the  period  of  rest, 
whether  it  be  sleep  or  death.  Standing  well  forward  on 
deck,  with  the  brilliance  of  the  city  pricking  the  dark  of 
the  offing,  it  was  borne  to  Routledge  that  his  life  at  this 
period  had  reached  a  parting  of  the  ways.  The  diver 
gences  stretched  out  before  him  clearly,  as  if  his  mind 
had  arranged  them  subconsciously,  while  his  material 
faculties  had  drowsed  in  the  lull  of  far  journeying. 
Thoughts  began  to  rain  upon  him. 

"  Routledge,  how  are  you  and  the  world  to  hook  up 
from  now  on?  .  .  .  You've  played  so  far,  just 
played,  scattered  your  years  all  over  the  earth,  with  but 
little  profit  to  yourself  or  to  the  world.  If  you  should 
die  to-night  you  would  possibly  have  earned  five  lines  in 
a  thirty-volume  encyclopaedia :  '  Cosmo  Routledge, 
American  born,  an  English  war-correspondent  and  trav 
eller,  rode  with  Tom,  stood  fire  with  Dick,  and  ran  with 


54  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Henry;  undertook  to  study  at  first  hand  various  native 
India  affairs,  and  died  of  a  fever  at  the  edge  of ' — God 
knows  what  yellow  desert  or  turbid  river." 

He  smiled  and  lit  his  pipe,  musing  on.  "  The  point 
is,  I'll  be  dead  long  before  the  fever — if  I  keep  up  this 
world-tramp — dead  to  myself  and  to  men — one  of  the 
great  unbranded,  crossing  and  recrossing  his  trail  around 
and  around  the  world.  .  .  .  Shall  I  sit  down  in 
London  or  New  York,  and  double  on  my  whole  trail  so 
far  on  paper — books,  editorials,  special  articles,  long 
dinners  beginning  at  eight,  an  hour  of  billiards,  a  desk  in 
some  newspaper  office — fat,  fatuous,  and  fixed  at  fifty? 
.  .  .  Which  is  better,  a  gaunt,  hungry,  storm-bitten 
wanderer,  with  his  face  forever  at  the  fire-lit  window- 
panes  of  civilization,  or  a  creased  and  cravatted  master 
of  little  ceremonies  within?  A  citizen  of  ordered  days 
and  nights,  or  an  exile  with  the  windy  planet  forever 
roaring  in  his  skull  ?  " 

They  were  warping  his  ship  into  dock,  and  the  voices 
of  France  were  thick  in  the  night. 

"  Routledge,  you're  evading  the  issue,"  he  muttered 
after  a  moment.  "  It  isn't  that  you  must  choose  between 
one  city  and  the  wide  world ;  nor  between  the  desk  or  the 
saddle,  a  tent  of  skins  or  a  compartment  of  brick.  You 
can  ride  a  camel  in  London  or  pack  a  folding-bed  over  the 
peaks  to  Llassa;  you  can  be  a  tramp  at  home  or  an 
editor  afield.  It  isn't  the  world  or  not,  Routledge,  but — 
a  woman  or  not !  " 

The  flapping  awning  took  up  the  matter  at  length. 
Routledge  relit  his  pipe  dexterously,  sensing  the  very  core 
of  the  harbor-breeze  with  his  nostrils,  and  shutting  it  off. 
.  .  .  He  would  cross  France  to-night ;  and  dine  in  Paris 


How  a  Master  Came  Down  55 

to-morrow,  breathe  the  ruffian  winds  of  the  Channel 
to-morrow  night,  and  breakfast  again  in  London.  .  .  . 
His  brain  had  put  off  the  lethargy  of  Asia,  indeed — 
quickened  already  to  the  tense  stroke  of  Europe.  He  was 
vehemently  animate.  The  rapid  French  talk  on  the  pier 
below  stirred  him  with  the  great  import  of  massed  life — 
as  it  might  have  stirred  a  boy  from  the  fields  entering 
the  city  of  his  visions.  A  few  hours  and  then 
London !  .  .  ."  She  has  never  forgotten  you, 
Routledge."  .  .  . 

Once  he  had  seen  the  mother  of  Noreen — the  woman 
who,  for  a  little  while,  was  the  embodied  heaven  to  Jerry 
Cardinegh ;  heaven  in  spirit  to  the  old  man  now.  A  face 
of  living  pearl;  the  gilding  and  bronzing  of  autumnal 
wood-lands  in  her  hair ;  great  still  eyes  of  mystery  and 
mercy.  ...  In  a  way  not  to  be  analyzed,  the  sight 
of  her  made  Routledge  love  more  Jerry  Cardinegh's 
Ireland.  Tyrone  was  hallowed  a  little  in  conception — 
because  it  had  been  her  home. 

In  Paris,  at  the  Seville,  the  next  afternoon,  a  servant 
informed  Routledge  that  a  lady  was  waiting  for  him  in 
the  Orange  Room.  There  was  a  lifting  in  his  breast,  a 
thrilling  temperamental  response.  Some  fragrant  essence 
of  home-coming  which  he  had  not  thought  to  find  in 
Paris  swept  over  his  senses.  .  .  .  She  was  sitting  in 
the  mellowed  glows  and  shadows  of  the  Seville's  famous 
parlor.  The  faintest  scent  of  myrrh  and  sandal ;  Zuni 
potteries  like  globes  of  desert  sunlight ;  golden  tapestries 
from  the  house  of  Gobelin ;  fleeces  of  gold  from  Persian 
looms ;  the  sheen  of  an  orange  full  moon  through  rifted 
clouds  of  satin ;  spars  of  gilded  daylight  through  the 
billowing  laces  at  the  casement ;  the  stillness  of  Palestine ; 


56  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

sunlight  of  centuries  woven  into  every  textile  fabric— 
and  the  woman,  Noreen,  rising  to  meet  him,  a  vivid 
classic  of  light  and  warmth. 

"  Routledge-san !  " 

"  To-morrow,  I  expected  to  see  you — in  London,"  he 
faltered. 

"  I  have  been  living  in  Paris.  I  return  to  Cheer 
Street  to-night — to  make  ready  for  father  to-morrow 
afternoon." 

He  was  burning  with  excitement  at  the  sight  of  her, 
and  the  red  was  deep  in  her  cheeks.  It  was  as  if  there 
had  been  wonderful  psychic  communions  between  them; 
and,  meeting  in  the  flesh  at  last,  they  were  abashed, 
startled  by  the  phenomenon. 

"  Mr.  Bingley  told  me  that  you  were  to  be  in  Paris 
to-day.  He  left  for  London  last  night.  I  was  impatient 
to  see  you.  Possibly  I  did  not  wait  long  enough  for  you 
to  rest  after  your  journey." 

Routledge  did  not  answer.  He  was  smiling  in  a 
strange,  shy  way,  as  few  men  smile  after  thirty.  More 
over,  he  was  holding  fast  to  the  hand  so  eagerly  offered. 

"  Do  forgive  my  staring  at  you,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  I've  been  away  a  very  long  time.  In  India " 

"  You  may  stare,  Routledge-san.  Men  coming  home 
from  the  wars  may  do  as  they  will,"  she  laughed. 

"  Finding  you  here  in  Paris  is  immense,  Miss  Noreen. 
I  was  planning  to  keep  the  way  open  from  Bookstall's  to 
Cheer  Street — to  ride  out  with  you  possibly,  watch  you 
paint  things,  and  have  talks -" 

"  You'll  stay  in  London  for  a  time,  Routledge-san  ?  " 

"  Yes,  until  you  and  Jerry  appeal  to  the  Review  to 
start  a  war  to  be  rid  of  me." 


How  a  Master  Came  Down  57 

She  did  not  need  to  tell  him  that  she  was  glad. 
"  Come,  let's  go  outside.  It's  like  an  enchanted  castle 
in  here — like  living  over  one  of  your  past  lives  in  all 
this  yellow  stillness." 

She  could  not  have  explained  what  made  her  say 
this.  Routledge  liked  the  idea,  and  put  it  away  to  be 
tried  in  the  crucible  of  solitude.  "  Where  did  you  leave 
father  ?  "  she  asked  when  they  were  in  the  street. 

"  Away  up  in  Bhurpal — two  or  three  days  before  we 
were  all  called  in." 

He  dreaded  the  next  question,  but,  understanding  that 
it  would  trouble  him,  Noreen  pushed  into  the  heart  x>f 
the  subject  without  asking. 

"  Of  course,  he  wouldn't  tell  me,  but  I'm  afraid  he 
isn't  well.  I  seem  to  know  when  ill  befalls  any  one  dear 
to  me." 

"  It  was  a  dull,  hard-riding  campaign,  but  he  weath 
ered  it." 

"  I  feel  him  white  and  time-worn  somehow,  Rout- 
ledge-san.  It  is  his  last  time  afield.  He  will  need  me 
always  now — but  we  won't  talk  of  it." 

She  led  the  way  through  the  crowded  streets — a  cold, 
bright  February  afternoon,  with  the  air  cleanly  crisp 
and  much  Parisian  show  and  play  about  them.  "  I'll 
take  you  to  my  studio,  if  you  wish.  .  .  .  It  is  quiet 
and  homey  there.  Most  of  my  things  are  packed,  but 
we  can  have  tea." 

"  I  was  planning  to  leave  for  London  to-night,"  he 
ventured. 

"  Of  course — we'll  take  the  same  boat.  And  to 
morrow — to-morrow  there  will  be  things  for  a  man  to 
do  in  Cheer  Street — getting  ready  for  father." 


58  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Both  laughed.  It  seemed  almost  too  joyous  to 
Routledge. 

"  I  can't  endure  London — that  is,  I  can't  live  there 
when  father  is  away,"  she  said  presently.  "  It  seems  less 
lonely  in  Paris.  London — certain  days  in  London — 
seem  to  reek  with  pent  tragedy.  There  is. so  much  gray 
sorrow  there;  so  much  unuttered  pain — so  many  lives 
that  seem  to  mean  nothing  to  the  gods  who  give  life.  I 
suppose  it  is  so  everywhere,  but  London  conceals  it  less." 

"  Less  than  India  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  India  has  her  philosophy.  There  is  no 
philosophy  in  the  curriculum  of  the  East  End.  .  .  . 
I  wish  I  could  think  about  India  as  you  do — calmly  and 
without  hate  for  the  British  ascendency  there.  At  least, 
without  showing  my  hatred.  But  it  seems  so  scandalous 
and  grotesque  to  me  for  a  commercial  people  to  dominate 
a  spiritual  people.  What  audacity  for  the  English  to 
suggest  to  the  Hindus  the  way  to  conduct  life  and  wor 
ship  God !  I  am  Jerry  Cardinegh's  girl — when  it  comes 
to  India  and  Ireland.  It  must  be  that  which  makes  me 
hate  London." 

"  England  is  young ;  India  old,"  said  Routledge. 
"  Many  times  the  old  can  learn  from  the  young — how  to 
live." 

"  But  not  how  to  die — and  yet  India  has  had  much 
practice  in  learning  how  to  die  at  the  hands  of  the 
British.  .  .  .  We  mustn't  talk  about  it  to-day !  The 
word  famine  rouses  me  into  a  savage.  India  famine ; 
Irish  famine;  the  perennial  famine  of  the  London  East 
End !  .  .  .  Coming  home  from  the  wars,  you  must 
not  be  forced  to  talk  about  bitter  things.  I  want  to  sit 
down  and  listen  to  you  about  your  India — not  the 


How  a  Master  Came  Down  59 

Cardinegh  India.  We  always  see  the  black  visage  behind 
India,  as  behind  Ireland.  You  see  the  enchantment  of 
Indian  inner  life — and  we  the  squalor  of  the  door-ways. 
Yes,  I  still  read  the  Review.  .  .  .  Ah,  Routledge- 
san,  your  interview  with  the  English  '  missionary-and- 
clubman  '  in  Lucknow  was  a  delicious  conception ;  yet 
back  of  it  all  there  is  something  of  horror  in  its  humor  to 
me.  Most  of  all  because  the  '  missionary-and-clubman/ 
as  I  saw  him,  under  your  hand,  would  have  perceived 
none  of  the  humor!  He  would  no  doubt  have  called  it 
a  very  excellent  paper — yet  every  line  contained  an  insin 
uation  of  his  calamitous  ignorance  and  his  infant-soul! 
I  must  repeat — what  audacity  for  the  cumbering  flesh 
of  a  matter-mad  people,  undertaking  to  teach  visionary 
India — how  to  look  for  God !  " 

Routledge  invariably  became  restless  when  the  values 
of  his  own  work  were  discussed  before  him. 

"  By  the  way,  Miss  Noreen,"  he  said,  "  I  left  Bingley 
behind  me  in  Calcutta " 

"  He  said  so,  but  crossed  India  by  rail  and  caught  a 
ship  before  you  at  Bombay.  Father  and  the  others  will 
be  in  London  to-morrow.  They  left  ship  at  Naples  to 
be  in  time  for  the  Army  and  Navy  Reception  to-morrow 
night." 

Routledge  was  a  trifle  bewildered  as  he  followed 
Noreen  up  the  stairway  into  the  studio,  and  sat  down 
by  the  window.  The  place  was  stripped  of  many  things 
identified  with  her  individuality,  and  yet  it  was  all  dis 
tinctly  a  part  of  her.  Trunks  and  boxes  were  ready  for 
the  carrier,  her  portmanteau  alone  opened.  Out  of  this 
she  drew  the  tea-things,  and  the  man  watched  with 
emotion.  After  the  alien  silence  of  the  Orange  Room 


60  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

and  the  turmoil  of  the  Parisian  streets,  the  studio  was 
dear  with  nameless  attractions.  All  the  negatives  of  his 
mind,  once  crowded  with  pictures  of  Paris  and  civiliza 
tion,  had  been  sponged  clean  by  India.  The  moments 
now  were  rushed  with  new  impressions.  .  .  .  The 
stamp  of  fineness  was  in  her  dress,  and  to  him  a  far- 
flinging  import  in  all  her  words.  The  quick  turn  of 
her  head  and  hand,  all  her  movements,  expressed  that 
nice  elastic  finish  which  marks  an  individual  from  the 
herd.  It  was  even  as  they  had  told  him  in  India.  Noreen 
Cardinegh  had  put  on  royalty  in  becoming  a  woman. 

The  man  did  not  cease  to  be  a  trifle  bewildered.  He 
was  charged  again  with  the  same  inspiring  temperament 
which  compelled  him  to  tell  her  the  intimate  story  of 
Rawder,  and  to  tell  it  with  all  his  valor  and  tenderness. 
Impedimenta  which  the  months  had  brought  to  his  brain 
and  heart  were  whipped  away  now  before  those  same 
wondrous,  listening  eyes.  Memories  of  her  had  always 
been  the  fairest  architecture  of  his  thoughts,  but  they 
were  as  castles  in  cloudland,  lineaments  half-lost,  com 
pared  to  this  moment,  with  the  living  glory  of  Noreen 
Cardinegh  sweeping  into  full  possession  of  his  life.  All 
that  had  been  before  was  dulled  and  undesirable;  even 
himself,  the  man,  Routledge,  with  whom  he  had  lived  so 
much  alone.  ...  In  this  splendid  moment  of  expan 
sion,  it  came  to  him — the  world's  bright  answer  to  his 
long  quest  for  the  reason  of  being. 

"  Routledge-san,  I  have  wine  and  tea  and  biscuit,  and 
you  may  smoke  if  you  like."  She  drew  up  a  little 
table  and  chair  for  herself.  "  It  will  be  an  hour  before 
the  carrier  comes  for  my  trunks,  and  I  want  you  to  tell 


How  a  Master  Came  Down  61 

me  if  you  have  seen  again — our  bravest  man.  It's  long 
over  a  year  since  you  left  him  in  Hong  Kong." 

"  Miss  Noreen " 

"  I'd  rather  be  Noreen  to  you." 

"  Noreen,  what  is  the  force  of  Rawder's  bigness  to 
you?"  Routledge  asked,  after  watching  her  several 
seconds. 

"  He  serves  blindly,  constantly,  among  the  dregs,  and 
has  mercy  for  all  men  but  himself !  "  she  said  intensely. 
"  The  living  spirit  of  the  Christ  seems  to  be  in  him,  and 
nothing  of  sex  or  earthly  desire.  I  have  pictured  him, 
since  you  told  me  the  story,  as  one  pure  of  soul  as  any  of 
the  prophets  or  martyrs.  I  care  not  for  the  range  of  his 
brain  when  he  has  a  human  heart  like  that!  ...  I 
wish  I  could  say  all  he  suggests  to  me,  but  I  mean — 
I  think  he  is  close  to  God ! " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Routledge.  "  It  is  one  of  the 
finest  things  I  know,  to  have  you  speak  of  him  as  '  our 
bravest  man ' — to  share  him  with  me.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  have  seen  him  again,  and  there  is  another  story  to  tell, 
and  I  will  tell  it,  as  he  told  me : 

"  It  began  with  his  leaving  Hong  Kong.  He  was 
never  so  weary  nor  so  faint-hearted  as  on  one  certain 
day.  It  was  about  the  time  I  was  with  you  for  an  even 
ing  in  Cheer  Street.  He  declares  when  that  night  came 
he  went  out  on  the  water-front  to  his  work  with  a 
'  wicked  rebellion '  in  his  heart.  A  night  of  rain  and 
storm.  He  had  rescued  a  fallen  sailor  from  the  Chinese, 
and  was  leading  him  to  his  own  lodging  when  he  was 
struck  from  behind  and  trampled.  'I'm  afraid  they 
meant  to  kill  me/  he  divulged,  and  added  in  apology  that 
the  lives  of  the  Chinese  are  so  dark  and  desperate  on  the 


62  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

water-front.  His  old  Minday  wound  was  reopened,  and 
he  awoke  to  feel  that  death  was  very  close.  You  see,  the 
police  had  found  his  body  in  the  rain.  He  was  drifting 
off  into  unconsciousness  when  a  vision  appeared. 

"  He  had  never  touched  India  at  that  time  in  this 
life,  but  it  was  a  bit  of  India  that  appeared  in  his  vision, 
and  it  was  all  very  true  to  him.  .  .  .  Nightfall  and 
a  little  village  street;  an  ancient  Hindu  holy  man  sitting 
in  a  doorway,  head  bowed,  his  lips  moving  with  the 
Ineffable  Name.  Very  clearly  Rawder  saw  this  and  the 
rest,  so  that  he  would  know  the  place  when  he  saw  it 
again — the  sand,  the  silence,  the  river  sweeping  like  a 
rusty  sickle  about  the  town,  and  his  old  master  sitting  in 
the  doorway. 

"  This  was  the  picture  that  came  to  him  as  he  lay 
in  a  station  of  the  Hong  Kong  Sihk-police,  and  close  to 
death.  .  .  .  The  Hindu  holy  man,  so  old  that  he 
seemed  to  be  a  companion  of  Death,  looked  up  sor 
rowfully  and  said :  '  My  son,  I  have  come  down  from 
the  goodly  mountains  for  you.  Just  this  way,  you  shall 
find  me  waiting.  Make  haste  to  come  for  me,  my  chela, 
for  I  am  full  of  years,  and  already  am  I  weary  of  these 
plains  and  so  many  men.  There  is  work  for  us  to  do 
before  we  go  back  together  to  our  goodly  mountains/ 

"  The  Sannyasi  spoke  in  Tibetan,  which  Rawder  had 
never  heard  before,  but  every  word  he  understood  as  I 
have  told  you.  *  And  how  swiftly  did  I  heal  after  that! ' 
he  exclaimed  to  me,  smiling.  His  pain  left  him  and  his 
wound  closed  magically.  They  told  him  he  would  die  if 
he  left  his  bed,  but  he  finished  his  healing  on  the  road  to 
his  river  and  his  village.  All  was  made  easy  for  him,  as 
our  bravest  man  declares.  There  was  a  ship  in  the 


How  a  Master  Came  Down  63 

harbor,  which  needed  a  man  to  peel  vegetables,  and 
Rawder  fitted  in,  remaining  aboard  port  after  port,  until 
something  prompted  him  to  go  ashore  at  Narsapur,, 
which  lies  among  the  mouths  of  the  great  Godavari.  One 
of  these  he  followed  up  to  the  main  stem,  and  journeyed, 
on  foot  for  months  and  months,  studying  the  natives  and 
their  language,  doing  what  appeared  to  him  among  the 
dead  and  the  living  in  the  midst  of  famine  and  plague,, 
and  ' knowing  no  hunger  nor  thirst  nor  pain'  These  are 
his  words,  Noreen." 

"  He  is  like  one  of  those  mystics,"  the  woman  said, 
"  like  Suso  or  St.  Francis  of  Assisi — who  would  not 
reckon  with  physical  pain." 

"  Yes.  ...  I  did  not  remain  long  in  America 
after  leaving  you  in  Cheer  Street.  In  fact,  I  was  back  in 
India  months  before  this  last  trouble  arose  in  Bhurpal — 
with  Rawder  in  India.  It  was  at  Sironcha,  where  the 
Godavari  joins  the  Penganga,  that  I  found  him,  and  he 
told  me  all  these  things.  Then  for  awhile  I  journeyed 
with  him,  and  it  was  very  good  for  me.  Always  he  was 
helping — down  at  the  very  roots  of  the  disorder  of  things. 
I  thought  of  you  very  much.  You  were  the  only  one 
I  had  told  of  Rawder.  That's  why  I  was  so  glad  to  hear 
you  say  '  our  bravest  man.'  " 

"  And  his  master  ?  " 

"  Yes.  ...  It  was  far  north  of  Sironcha,  on  the 
Penganga,  and  he  had  been  hurrying,  hurrying,  for  days.. 
I  was  to  leave  him  at  Ahiri  for  the  service  in  two  days 
more.  At  nightfall,  we  came  to  the  little  village,  with 
the  Penganga  sweeping  about  it  like  a  rusty  sickle.  '  It  is 
the  place — I  know  the  place,'  he  kept  repeating.  .  .  . 
Even  I  was  not  surprised,  Noreen,  to  see  the  aged 


64  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Sannyasi  sitting  in  the  doorway,  his  lips  moving  with  the 
Ineffable  Name.  .  .  .  And  so  our  bravest  man  found 
the  master  he  had  earned ;  the  old  master  who  had  come 
down  from  his  lodge  in  the  goodly  mountains  to  take 
back  the  purest  man-soul  I  have  ever  known." 

"  Then  you — then  you  will  never  see  him  again  ?  " 
the  woman  cried. 

"  That  is  what  is  strange  to  me,  Noreen.  He  said  I 
should  see  him  again  in  India  this  year.  He  said  I  would 
know  the  time  and  the  place.  They  are  journeying  north 
ward  toward  the  hills  on  foot  and  very  slowly.  One 
might  travel  around  the  world,  and,  returning,  find  them 
only  three  or  four  latitudes  northward  from  the  place  of 
parting.  And  so  I  left  him  very  happy,  learning  Tibetan 
and  Chinese,  and  the  ancient  wisdom,  happily  helping  in 
the  midst  of  the  world's  direst  poverty." 

"  And  you  have  no  thought  to  return  to  India  so  far, 
Routledge-san  ?  " 

"  No." 

The  tea  was  perfect.  The  carrier  came  and  took  the 
trunks  and  boxes.  They  sat  together  in  the  stripped 
studio  while  the  twilight  hushed  the  distances.  The  street 
below  lost  its  look  of  idling,  and  the  figures  moved 
quickly.  .  .  .  There  were  no  lights.  The  man 
thrilled  in  the  black  hallway  as  the  woman  whispered  an 
adieu  to  her  little  Paris  place;  then  shut  the  door,  and, 
feeling  for  his  hand,  led  him  to  the  stairs. 


ROUTLEDGE  CONTEMPLATES  THE  PAST,  IN  THE 
MIDST  OF  A  SHADOW  FORECAST  BY 
LARGE  EVENTS 

THEY  dined  at  the  Seville,  took  a  night-train  for 
Calais,  and  talked  on  the  steamer's  deck  in  the  Channel. 
It  was  a  night  of  stars  and  cold  gusts  of  wind.  The 
lights  of  France  died  out  behind.  A  ship  appeared  ahead 
like  a  faint,  low-swinging  star,  loomed  mightily,  her 
great  form  pricked  in  light,  and  passed  swiftly  by,  so 
near  that  they  heard  her  crushing  the  seas,  and  the  throb 
of  her  iron  heart.  .  .  .  Noreen  was  saying : 

"  It's  so  good  not  to  have  to  travel  alone.  I  have  been 
so  much  alone.  I  seem  to  tell  you  things  quite  amaz 
ingly.  ...  I  must  be  intensely  strange  in  some  way, 
possibly  psychic,  because  I  dream  so  many  things  which 
remain  vividly  afterward." 

The  picture  she  meant  to  put  into  words  came  clearly 
with  Routledge  listening. 

"  Once,  when  I  was  so  little  that  I  couldn't  talk  plainly 
— so  little  that  you  might  have  balanced  me  in  your 
hand — a  woman  came  to  the  tiny  room  where  I  lay.  It 
was  in  the  midst  of  the  night.  Father  was  in  Asia  some 
where.  I  was  awake,  I  think,  because  I  heard  the  woman 
fumbling  at  the  door.  She  was  a  big,  hysterical  thing  and 
suddenly  screamed  that  my  mother  was  dead — then 
rushed  away,  leaving  me  alone  in  the  dark !  ...  It 
was  at  a  lonely  English  country-house  in  winter.  I 

5  65 


66  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

remember  the  snow  and  the  winds  and  the  gray,  tossing 
sky  and  the  nights.  I  had  to  stay  there  alone  until  father 
•came  home.  For  more  than  a  month  I  was  in  that  great 
house,  with  naked,  sighing  trees  all  around — trees  close 
to  the  walls  of  the  house.  They  cut  the  wind  into 
ribbons  and  made  a  constant  moaning.  And,  oh,  the 
nights  were  eternal !  I  was  in  a  broad,  cold  room  in  the 
.great,  creaking  house — and  always  I  could  hear  hard- 
breathing  from  somewhere.  Alone,  I  wore  out  all  my 
fears  there — until  at  last  I  had  no  fears,  only  dreams  of 
the  night  that  lived  with  me  all  through  the  day.  I  have 
never  gone  near  that  country-place  since  father  came. 
How  terrible  he  looked!  It  left  me  strange  and  differ 
ent — so  that  I  was  never  like  a  little  child  afterward. 
.  .  .  Routledge-san,  why  do  I  tell  you  all  these 
things?  Not  in  years  have  I  talked  so  much  in  one  day." 
"  Nor  have  I  listened  so  raptly,  Noreen." 
"  I  wouldn't  have  tried  to  tell  you  so  much — except 
that  you  are  to  be  back  in  India  within  a  year.  .  .  . 
It  has  come  to  me,  Routledge-san,  that  you  are  to  go 
very  quickly !  " 

There  was  a  creak  of  a  wicker-chair  in  the  shadows 
of  the  engine-room  air-shafts  behind  them.  Noreen 
grasped  his  arm  impulsively.  It  was  not  that  she  had 
said  anything  which  the  world  might  not  hear,  but  her 
concentration  had  been  intense,  and  the  little  story  she 
had  told  had  been  so  intimately  personal  to  her  that  no 
woman,  and  only  this  man,  had  ever  called  it  forth.  There 
was  quick  cruelty  in  the  thought  of  it  being  overheard 
Ity  a  stranger.  In  any  case,  the  spell  was  broken.  Rout- 
ledge  was  irritated.  The  recall  from  the  world  of  the 
woman,  and  the  feeling  of  oneness  with  her  which  the 


Routledge  Contemplates  the  Past         67 

strange  little  confidence  had  inspired,  was  pure  unpleas 
antness. 

"  I'll  go  to  my  state-room  now,"  she  whispered. 
"  There  is  only  a  little  while  to  rest.  .  .  .  Good 
night,  Routledge-san.  I'll  be  abroad  early." 

He  knew  that  she  would  not  have  thought  of  her  cabin 
yet,  even  though  the  hour  was  late,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  intrusion  of  the  creaking  chair.  Routledge  took  her 
hand  and  spoke  a  brisk  good-night.  Returning  to  the 
deck-chair  between  the  air-shafts,  he  sat  down  and  arose 
again  carefully.  The  sound  was  the  same.  He  tested  the 
chair  thoroughly  and  found  that  in  no  possible  way  could 
the  wind  have  caused  the  creak.  .  .  .  They  had  stood 
long  within  eight  or  nine  feet  of  the  chair.  A  gentleman 
would  have  given  some  notice  that  he  was  within  hearing, 
or,  better  still,  would  have  gone  his  way — unless  asleep. 
This  last  was  unlikely,  because  the  deck  was  searched  by 
a  keen  winter  wind.  In  the  smoking-room  was  an  indi 
vidual  whose  face  had  become  familiar  to  Routledge  since 
he  had  taken  the  Paris  train  at  Marseilles  the  night  before 
— a  middle-aged  man,  strongly  featured,  wearing  a  white 
mustache.  This  traveller  had  also  stopped  at  the  Seville. 
He  glanced  up  from  a  game  of  solitaire  as  Routledge 
entered.  There  were  a  bridge-party  and  one  or  two 
others  in  the  apartment.  Routledge  chose  a  cigar  very 
carefully,  and  managed  to  whisper  to  the  attendant  in 
a  light,  humorous  way: 

"  Let  me  look  at  that  cordial-flask  a  moment,  and  tell 
me  how  long  that  man  at  solitaire  has  been  here." 

The  other  handed  him  the  package  and  whispered, 
"  Just  about  five  minutes." 

Routledge  purchased  the  cordial  and  passed  out.    It 


68  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

happened  that  he  glanced  into  the  smoking-room  through 
a  half -curtained  window,  and  met  the  eyes  of  the  White 
Mustache  fully.  ...  It  was  a  little  thing — scarcely 
a  coincidence — for  one  to  cross  France  by  the  same  stages 
in  twenty-four  hours  and  break  the  journey  at  the  same 
hotel  in  Paris.  Moreover,  because  the  stranger  was  not 
in  the  smoking-room  fifteen  minutes  before  did  not  estab 
lish  the  fact  that  it  was  his  weight  that  had  made  the 
chair  creak.  .  .  .  Routledge  was  disinclined  to  rest. 
The  day  had  revolutionized  his  systems  of  being.  He 
longed  for  daylight  again,  quite  forgetting  his  usual 
patience  with  the  natural  passing  of  hours  and  events. 
The  day  itself  had  been  unspeakably  fine,  but  there  was  a 
disturbing  reaction  now  and  a  premonitive  shadow  that 
would  not  be  smoked  nor  reasoned  out  of  mind. 

This,  on  the  night  of  his  perfect  day.  Noneen 
Cardinegh  had  given  him  every  moment  of  her  time  in 
Paris,  not  even  saying  good-by  to  her  friends.  .  .  . 
It  was  not  the  mystery  in  India ;  not  the  swift  failing  of 
Jerry  Cardinegh,  which  his  daughter  felt,  though  she  had 
not  seen ;  not  the  White  Mustache  nor  the  creaking  chair — 
these  merely  wove  into  a  garment  of  nettles.  The  pre 
monition  was  not  even  his  own.  It  was  Noreen  Cardi- 
negh's,  and  had  to  do  with  his  leaving  her  and  hurrying 
back  to  India.  .  .  .  "It  has  come  to  me,  Routledge- 
san,  that  you  are  to  go  very  quickly !  "  .  .  .  The 
great  frieze  coat  was  wet  with  Channel  mists  and 
Channel  spray  when  the  half-dawn  developed  the  Dover 
pier,  and  the  eyes  of  the  wanderer  were  filled  once  more 
with  the  seven  shades  of  English  gray.  .  .  .  Noreen 
was  out  before  the  full  day. 

"  Let's  take  the  earlier  train  for  Charing  Cross,"  she 


Routledge  Contemplates  the  Past         69 

said.  "  I  believe  we  still  have  time.  Our  luggage  is 
checked  through,  and  we  can  breakfast  en  route." 

He  brought  his  bag,  and  Noreen  took  his  arm  com- 
panionably  as  he  appeared  on  the  main  deck  again. 
.  .  .  She  was  all  in  gray  like  the  morning,  save  for 
a  touch  of  yellow  ruching  at  her  throat  and  her  hair's 
golden  wonder-work.  .  .  .  Routledge  turned  on  the 
pier  at  a  step  behind.  It  was  the  White  Mustache  in  light- 
travelling  order,  hastening  to  make  the  early  train. 

A  breakfast-table  was  between  them.  "  Routledge- 
san,"  she  said,  leaning  toward  him  critically,  "  you  don't 
look  the  least  bit  tired,  but  I  doubt  if  you've  slept  since 
I  left  you.  Beside,  your  coat  is  all  wet." 

"  I  did  smell  the  Channel  a  bit,"  he  replied,  thinking 
that  a  man  who  looked  dull  and  worn  in  the  presence  of 
Noreen  Cardinegh  would  be  incapable  of  reflecting  light 
of  any  kind.  "  I  could'nt  feel  more  fit  and  keep  my  self- 
control.  Though  I  am  not  an  Englishman,  it  thrills  to 
see  England  again."  He  glanced  from  his  plate  to  her 
eyes  and  then  out  upon  the  winter  fields,  sweeping  by 
the  window  like  an  endless  magic  carpet.  "  Some  time, 
when  there  are  no  more  wars,"  he  added,  "  We  shall 
write  an  essay  and  call  it,  '  Grape-fruit  and  Kentish 
Gardens.'  " 

They  separated  at  Charing  Cross,  to  meet  again  in 
the  evening  at  the  Army  and  Navy  reception.  Routledge 
repaired  to  his  old  lodgings  in  Bookstalls  Road  and  sat 
down  before  his  grate-fire  in  the  midst  of  old  trophies 
and  treasures.  Bookstalls  was  a  crowded  part  of  London, 
rushing  with  many  small  businesses,  and  convenient  to 
vast  tracts  of  unbroken  undesirability.  It  was  a  gorge 
that  boomed  continual  clamor.  Even  at  night,  when  the 


70  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

protest  from  the  cobble-stones  should  have  sunk  to  its 
stillest,  the  neighboring  fire-department  was  wont  to 
burst  open  at  intervals  like  the  door  of  a  cuckoo-clock 
and  pour  forth  tons  of  clangorous  polished  metal. 
Whistles  from  the  far  river  whipped  the  smoky  air  when 
the  small  factories  were  at  peace ;  night-shifts  of  work 
men  kept  the  pavements  continually  animate.  There  was 
an  iron-tongued  guard  in  the  belfry  of  Old  Timothy's 
Church  that  never  let  an  hour  go  by  without  brutally 
hammering  it  flat,  and  then  bisecting  it ;  and  on  Sundays 
and  Saints'  days,  the  same  bell  sent  a  continual  crashing 
through  the  gorge  with  a  hurting,  tangible  vibration,  like 
a  train  in  a  subway. 

Bookstalls  had  been  decadent  for  decades.  When 
grandfathers  were  little  boys  it  had  been  a  goodly  place 
of  residence,  but  small  factories  had  long  been  smoking 
it  out.  Indeed,  it  sat  in  venerable  decrepitude  by  the 
fires  of  its  shops.  Certain  habitues  lived  on,  nor  noted 
the  progress  of  decay,  more  than  an  old  rat  perceives 
the  rotting  mould  sink  deeper  into  his  confining  walls,  or 
the  crumble  of  his  domestic  plasters. 

Routledge  in  London  was  one  of  the  habitues.  The 
place  was  associated  to  him  with  dim  beginnings — a 
store-room  of  sentiments  and  war-relics  kept  by  the  year. 
Before  this  fire  he  had  written  his  first  views  of  London 
for  an  American  newspaper,  and  here  he  had  brought 
various  reminders  of  travel.  To  Bookstalls  he  returned 
from  his  first  journey  to  India — returned  with  the  old 
brown  Mother's  mystic  whisperings  in  his  brain,  her 
mystic  winds  filling  the  sails  of  his  soul.  Gazing  at  this 
same  grate-fire,  tranced  as  by  the  heart  of  crystal,  he  had 
sunk  into  his  first  meditations,  murmuring  the  star-reach- 


Routledge  Contemplates  the  Past         71 

ing  OM — until  the  boy  within  him,  crude  with  Europe, 
broke  the  spell  in  fright,  lest  his  divided  bodies  join 
together  no  more.  Those  days  he  had  drunk  deep  of 
the  Vedas;  and  the  Bhagavad  Gita  was  one  with  him 
according  to  his  light.  Out  of  these  he  came  to  see  and 
feel  the  great  Wheel  of  Births  and  Deaths  and  Re-Births 
moving  true  and  eternal  in  the  cogs  of  Karma.  Ancl, 
having  once  sensed  and  discovered  this,  the  little  prob 
lems  of  the  earth's  day  and  generation  are  but  gentle 
calisthenics  for  the  mind. 

Routledge  looked  back  upon  those  pure  days  wist 
fully  now.  It  is  given  a  man  but  once  in  this  life  to 
follow  the  Way.  When  manhood  is  fresh  and  sensitive, 
retaining  all  its  delicate  bloom  and  unhurt  power;  and 
when,  full  of  a  hunger  that  never  falls  below  the  dia 
phragm,  the  young  man  turns  for  Truth  to  the  masters 
and  sages — this  is  the  time  to  choose  between  the  world 
and  the  stars!  This  is  the  time  that  the  world  gives 
battle  to  detain  the  searching  soul.  "  Look,  yonder  is  a 
Joseph  climbing  to  God !  "  cries  the  old  Flesh-mother ; 
and,  gathering  her  minions  of  enchantment  and  her 
dragons  of  fear,  she  scorns  the  lower  cities,  all  safely 
swarming  to  her  tribute,  to  pluck  at  the  skirts  of  the 
Heaven-called.  .  .  .  What  red  flowers  of  passion  she 
strews  before  him  on  the  rocky,  upland  way ;  what  songs 
of  conquest  she  summons  from  the  lower  groves;  with 
what  romances  does  she  stir  his  rest,  all  fragrant-lipped 
and  splendor-eyed;  what  a  Zion  she  rears  of  cloud  and 
clay  to  hold  his  eyes  from  the  Heights — are  not  all  these 
written,  aye,  burned,  into  the  history  of  Man? 

Who  goes  beyond?  A  valiant  few.  ...  If  the 
enchantments  fail  to  hold  him,  and  if  his  clear  eyes  pene- 


72  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

trate  the  illusions  of  sense ;  lo,  the  path  grows  steep  and 
dark  before  him,  and  there  are  dragons  in  the  way !  The 
faith  of  the  youth  must  be  as  Daniel's  now,  which  is 
tetanus  for  lions  and  palsy  for  every  monster.  He  has 
not  lingered  with  the  lusts.  Will  he  not  falter  before 
the  fears? 

The  many  tarry  in  the  tinsel  gardens  of  sense;  the 
few  turn  back  before  the  roar  of  the  Furies ;  the  One — 
but  who  can  tell  how  the  bay-tree  blooms  for  him,  where 
glory  waits?  .  .  . 

The  saddest  part  of  all  is,  that  those  who  are  called 
and  turn  back,  learn  in  the  coolness  of  years  how  treach 
erous  are  the  enchantments,  and  that  never  a  dragon 
of  the  dark  harmed  a  hair  of  Strongheart ;  but  the  way 
shines  not  so  clear  for  a  second  journey,  and  the  soul 
is  hardened  with  skepticisms  past  responding  to  the 
Inner  Voice.  The  man  must  be  born  again. 

Routledge  sat  in  his  old  leathern  chair  and  looked 
back  a  little  sorrowfully  upon  the  boy  of  twelve  years 
ago,  all  clean  from  the  dust  of  the  world's  trails,  uncal- 
loused  by  war,  sensitive  to  the  spirit,  stirring  in  the 
chrysalis  of  flesh,  all  lit  with  star-stuff !  ...  If  only 
he  had  known  Noreen  Cardinegh  then!  ...  He 
could  look  deeply  within.  He  did  not  love  the  manner 
of  man  he  saw  in  himself — a  wanderer  striding  over  the 
East;  sitting  down  often  for  a  year,  in  the  places  white 
men  choose  most  ardently  to  avoid,  and  devoting  himself 
(who  dared  look  back  wistfully  now  upon  those  begin 
nings  of  spiritual  life)  to  the  reddest  ructions  of  Matter — 
war,  red  war. 

He  shook  his  head  bitterly,  rose,  and  went  to  the 


Routledge  Contemplates  the  Past         73 

window,  looking  down  upon  thronging  Bookstalls  with 
•unseeing  eyes.  Out  of  it  all  came  this  at  last : 

"  No,  Routledge-san,  you  have  given  your  reddest 
blood  and  whitest  fire  to  old  Mother  Asia.  Would  it 
be  fair  and  clean  of  you  to  yoke  the  remnant — and  such 
an  earthy  remnant — with  the  lofty  purity  of  Noreen 
Cardinegh  ?  " 

Long  he  stood  there  in  the  depths  of  thinking,  until 
startled  by  the  softly  uttered  name: 

"  Routledge-san." 

He  was  sure  his  own  lips  had  not  formed  the  syllables. 
He  wondered  if  it  had  winged  across  the  city  from  Cheer 
Street.  .  .  .  His  glance  fell  to  the  road.  Below,  and 
a  little  to  the  right  he  perceived  the  White  Mustache. 
Routledge  seized  his  hat  and  descended  quickly,  but  the 
stranger  was  gone.  For  a  half-hour  he  tried  to  trap  the 
other  into  a  meeting,  but  in  vain.  It  was  after  mid-day 
and  raining.  He  had  intended  to  go  to  the  Retnew 
office,  but  the  old  leathern  chair  and  the  friendly  lodg 
ing  lured  him  back.  To-morrow  would  do  for  the 
Review.  To-night,  the  Army  and  Navy  reception. 
Everybody  he  knew  would  be  there.  .  .  .  She  had 
asked  him  to  come  to  Cheer  Street,  but  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  break  in  upon  old  Jerry's  home-coming. 
He  stirred  the  fire  and  fell  to  musing  again  in  the  glow. 


FIFTH  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  STEPS  OUT  SPIRITEDLY  IN  THE  FOG  TO 

FIND  HIS  FRIENDS  AND  ENCOUNTERS 

THE  HATE  OF  LONDON 

ROUTLEDGE  left  his  lodgings  a  little  before  nine  that 
night,  and  breasted  the  February  fog  in  his  great 
frieze  coat.  He  was  minded  to  hail  a  cab  when  he 
wearied  of  walking,  but  the  time  and  distance  were  put 
behind  with  a  glow  and  a  gradually  quickening  pace. 
It  was  a  good  four  miles  from  Bookstalls  to  Trafalgar 
Square  and  the  Armory  where  the  Army  and  Navy 
reception  was  held.  He  skirted  Hyde  Park,  now  in  the 
zenith  of  its  season,  and  glimpsed  Piccadilly  again.  Its 
full  electric  bloom  was  a  ghastly  sheen  in  the  fog. 
London,  the  old  and  blackened  brick  Mammoth,  was 
sweet  to  him,  even  now  vaporing  in  her  night-sweat. 
.  .  .  He  had  thought  of  these  shops,  clubs,  lights, 
smells,  and  monuments  in  the  long,  heaven-clear  Indian 
nights.  Afar  in  the  Himalayas,  where  the  old  Earth- 
mother  strains  hungrily  toward  the  stars  (as  does  the 
soul  of  man  who  broods  in  those  austere  heights),  he  had 
thought  hard  upon  these  stirring  pavements  and  yearned 
for  them  in  red  moments  of  memory.  In  the  rice-lands 
of  Rangoon ;  in  the  cotton  country  Bombay  ward ;  in  the 
bazaars  of  Lahore;  overlooking  the  plains  from  Simla; 
in  the  under-world  of  Calcutta,  and  the  house-tops  of 
Benares — he  had  mapped  these  streets  in  reflection  and 
colored  certain  land-marks  with  desire. 
74 


The  Hate  of  London  75 

Here,  in  his  own  world-yard  again,  walking  for  an 
hour  through  the  centre  of  London,  and  not  a  human  had 
hailed  him.  The  strokes  of  ten  boomed  down  from  some 
spire  lost  in  the  muffling  mists. 

"  One  would  have  to  carry  a  lantern,  like  the  old 
prophet  of  the  barrel-house,  to  find  his  playmates  in  a 
night  like  this.  Besides,"  he  added,  "  most  of  my  play 
mates  by  this  time  are  bathing  in  the  vanities  across  the 
Square." 

There  was  a  herd  of  carriages  at  the  entrance  to  the 
famous  ball-room;  and  under  the  awnings  he  encoun 
tered  the  quick,  natty  figure  of  the  much-liked  Finacune 
— seized  the  shoulders  of  the  little  man  affectionately. 

11  Hello,  old  heart — my  first  glimpse  of  a  white  man 
in  the  Home-zone " 

Finacune  turned  in  an  abrupt,  unnerved  way.  "  Why, 
how  d'  do,  Routledge?"  he  mumbled  throatily.  His 
right  hand  had  jerked  toward  the  other  from  habit,  but 
was  withdrawn  without  the  clasp.  "  How  d'  do?  Comin' 
in,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

With  this  astonishing  greeting,  the  Word  man  leaped 
up  the  stone  steps  and  left  his  "  mystic  of  the  wars  " 
beneath  the  dripping  canopy,  not  a  little  perturbed.  The 
rather  intent  regard  of  the  cab-starter  pulled  Routledge 
from  his  reflecting  after  a  moment,  and  he  followed 
Finacune  into  the  Hall,  being  shown  at  once  to  the  gen 
tlemen's  coat-room.  Apparently  Finacune  had  shed  his 
outer  garment  with  incredible  speed,  for  he  was  not 
there;  nor  any  other  guests.  Routledge's  first  thought 
was  that  a  joke  was  being  perpetrated  at  his  expense, 
Finacune's  action  merely  preparing  the  way,  but  he  could 


76  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

not  hold  fast  to  this.    His  whole  nature  was  sensitive  at 
once  to  a  formidable  disorder. 

His  name  trembled  above  the  sense-stirring  music  as 
he  stepped  upon  the  floor  of  the  brilliant  hall.  It  was 
a  distinguished  company  of  admirals,  generals,  civilian 
campaigners,  and  exalted  representatives  of  the  Home, 
Foreign,  and  Colonial  Departments;  the  bravest  men  of 
the  kingdom,  perhaps;  certainly  some  of  the  fairest 
women.  The  throng  moved  about  in  a  slow,  suppressed 
way;  and  the  faces  turned  toward  him  not  gladly,  not 
pointedly,  but  in  a  quick,  secretive,  on-the-defensive 
fashion,  as  upon  some  huge  agent  of  menace  and  craft. 

With  difficulty,  Routledge  controlled  the  muscles  of 
his  face.  The  public  speaker  knows  the  moment.  Here 
is  straightforward  testimony  of  the  power  of  mind  over 
matter.  That  first  volume  of  abhorrence  and  distrust 
which  his  eyes  had  ever  met,  seemed  to  rub  out  his 
features  and  weave  its  own  image  upon  the  flesh.  He 
never  forgot  the  sensation.  Women  craned  their  heads 
behind  the  shoulders  of  the  men.  A  steward  passed 
before  him,  fell  into  the  current  of  hatred,  and  his  face 
altered  visibly.  Routledge  summoned  all  his  resistance 
and  smiled.  He  understood  instantly  that  only  a  few 
of  the  men,  the  most  valued  tools  of  the  kingdom,  knew 
the  specific  allegation,  and  that  by  the  others  he  was 
charged  with  some  dreadful  generality.  Finacune  had 
disappeared.  Jerry  Cardinegh  had  not  arrived.  Trol- 
lope,  that  goodly  bullock  of  a  man,  most  slow  of  all  to  be 
blown  in  a  gale  of  popular  opinion,  stood  nearest  to 
Routledge.  The  two  faced  each  other  fixedly. 

"  I  say,  brother,  what's  up  ? "  Routledge  inquired 
lightly. 


The  Hate  of  London  77 

"  I  was  thinking  of  interviewing  you  on  the  matter — 
not  for  publication,  of  course,  but  for  my  own  curiosity," 
was  the  puzzling  answer. 

Routledge  quickly  stepped  forward,  but  Trollope 
turned  away. 

Burling-Forster,  an  artillery  chieftain,  whose  valor, 
years  before  at  Quetta,  had  vividly  been  placed  before  the 
British  people  by  Routledge,  the  only  civilian  detached 
with  him  at  the  time,  took  the  place  of  Trollope  now 
and  stared  with  steady,  stony  insolence,  an  accomplish 
ment  of  Englishmen  only,  at  the  man  who  had  made  him 
famous.  He  did  not  move  to  take  the  hand  which 
Routledge  was  careless  enough  to  offer  him.  However, 
Burling-Forster  uttered  a  sentence  which  showed  that 
he  quite  forgot  that  there  were  women  in  the  room. 

There  was  not  a  shade  of  change  now  in  the  brown 
hue  of  Routledge's  face,  nor  in  the  pleasure  of  his  smile. 

"  Colonel,  I  once  saw  your  temper  working  to  better 
effect,"  he  said  courteously.  .  .  .  "  Feeney,"  he 
remarked,  turning  to  the  grim  visage  of  the  old  man, 
"  perhaps  you  may  tell  me — am  I  out  of  order  to  inquire 
what  this  game  is  ?  " 

"  It  appears  to  me,"  Feeney  answered  gloomily,  "  that 
you  are  out  of  order  anywhere." 

"  Thank  you— I  didn't  know." 

It  was  now  the  turn  of  Dartmore,  the  editor  of  the 
Review.  As  has  been  related,  it  had  been  the  recent 
vocation  of  Routledge  to  make  this  newspaper  impor 
tant  in  and  between  wars.  To  be  insulted  by  Dartmore 
was  like  being  thrown  from  a  horse  into  a  hedge  of 
Spanish-bayonets. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  were  crafty  enough  not  to  call 


78  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

at  the  Review  office  to-day,  though  you've  got  hell's 
own  audacity  to  come  here.  Don't  go  to  the  Review  for 
your  cheque.  I  will  see  to  it  that  it  is  brought  to  the 
Rubicon  Buffet  within  an  hour.  I  advise  you  to  buy 
something  with  it  to  kill  yourself." 

A  tall  figure  in  evening  wear  brushed  by  Routledge 
now,  rather  roughly  and  without  apology.  It  was 
Bingley,  of  the  Thames.  For  an  instant  Routledge  was 
blinded — the  Hindus  name  it  well — by  the  red  mists  of 
passion.  He  had  drilled  himself  to  bear  the  words,  had 
listened  coldly,  curiously,  for  the  past  few  moments, 
but  the  actual  physical  contact  unleashed  his  rage. 

"  I  shouldn't  advise  him  to  kill  himself  until  he  is 
well  clear  of  the  shores  of  England,  Dartmore — the  taint, 
you  know !  "  Bingley  said  with  a  brassy  smile. 

The  face  of  a  woman  hurrying  toward  him  through 
the  breathless  groups  in  the  great  reception  hall  pulled 
Routledge  out  of  delirium. 

"  Bingley,"  he  remarked,  shutting  his  eyelids  forcibly, 
as  if  to  expel  the  rheum  of  anger,  "  I'll  bear  in  mind 
your  suggestion." 

The  editor  turned  his  back  upon  his  prince  of  servants, 
as  routine  men  frequently  dare  to  do.  A  butler  stood  by 
Routledge  with  the  great  frieze  coat.  The  air  became 
electric  with  whisperings.  The  whole  company  was 
intent  upon  a  matter,  the  nature  of  which  only  a  handful 
knew.  But  the  others  discussed  it  in  awed,  hungry 
eagerness — in  that  deplorable,  hungerish  way  of  lesser 
folk  who  are  enabled  to  forget  their  own  limitations  by 
the  spectacle  of  one  of  the  mighty  fallen.  Routledge 
swung  into  his  outer  garment,  smiling  strangely.  .  .  . 

Then   the   ladies   of   the   kingdom   gasped    and   the 


The  Hate  of  London  79 

valiants  stared.  A  lady  broke  in  through  the  narrowing 
circle  and  ran  to  the  outcast — a  wondrous  Irish  lady 
of  red-gold  hair  and  pale  gold  silk.  Her  hand  fell  upon 
the  sleeve  of  his  great-coat,  and  her  face,  the  masterpiece 
from  the  famous  gallery  of  Erin,  was  upturned  proudly 
but  pitifully  to  his. 

"  They  won't  tell  me — they  speak  of  treachery,  but 
no  one  dares  to  tell  me — what  is  this  horrid  mistake  ?  " 
she  demanded. 

The  sudden  look  of  tenderness  in  Routledge's  eyes 
gave  way  to  fear  and  pain.  The  others  had  stepped  back. 

"  Run  away,  you  blessed  girl,"  he  whispered.  "  Some 
thing  big  is  wrong.  I  seem  to  understand  it  least  of  all — 
but  its  plain  I'm  bad  medicine  here  now.  It  will  all  come 
out.  Meanwhile,  don't  be  seen  with  me,  Noreen !  "  He 
added  in  the  shadow  of  a  whisper,  "  Your  father " 

"  Father  will  be  here  to-night.  He  brought  me  to 
the  door,  promising  to  be  back  within  an  hour.  I  think 
he  went  to  find  you.  Oh,  he's  changed — more  than  I 
feared!  But  you,  Routledge-san " 

"  Please  leave  me.  You  are  assailing  your  position 
by  talking  with  me.  That  hurts  worse  than  anything 
these  people  might  say.  I  shall  go  out  and  think  it 
over.  .  .  .  Good  night,  Noreen,  my  dear  friend." 

But  she  clung  to  his  arm.  "  What  do  I  care  what 
they  think  of  me?  I  want  you  to  know — you  must 
know  when  you  are  alone — that  there  is  one  woman  who 
will  stand  by  you,  through  all  things !  " 

Her  words  were  not  lost  to  the  periphery  of  the 
crowd.  He  drew  back  stoutly,  but  his  heart  sank  when 
she  added  even  more  loudly :  "  Remember,  you  have  one 
friend — even  though  all  your  brave  companions  fail !  " 


80  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

His  lips  moved  with  the  words :  "  Dear  Noreen— 
say  no  more." 

"Remember  me!"  came  back  to  him. 

For  an  instant  she  watched  as  he  turned  to  the  door 
— lineage  to  Plantagenet  and  stuff  of  angels  warm  in  her 
heart.  The  other  women  fathomed  his  attempt  to  shield 
her  from  them  and  from  her  own  impulsiveness.  What 
they  thought  of  his  gallantry  they  did  not  tell ;  but  what 
they  thought  of  Noreen  Cardinegh  was  revealed  in 
jewelled  combs  and  in  the  elaborate  artistry  of  back- 
hair  which  met  her  eyes  when  she  turned  once  more  to 
the  hall. 

"  Mighty  brave  of  you,  I'm  sure,  Miss  Cardinegh," 
said  Bingley,  stepping  to  her  side.  "  I  should  like  to 
have  a  friend  so  loyal.  But  you're  wrong  this  time, 
really " 

"  Even  so,  Mr.  Bingley,  I  shall  trust  to  my  own 
judgment,"  she  answered,  moving  swiftly  into  the  throng, 
where  he  did  not  essay  to  follow. 

Routledge  had  not  missed  the  attitude  of  the  Hall 
toward  her.  The  tempest  of  abhorrence,  though  a  new 
and  very  wonderful  brand  of  battle,  did  not  shatter  his 
philosophy,  but  the  slight  which  his  champion  was  endur 
ing  for  his  sake — this  was  grim  hell  in  his  heart. 

Outside  he  fought  it,  the  roar  of  dripping  London  in 
his  ears.  A  cab  drove  up  to  the  reception-canopy,  and 
her  father,  Jerry  Cardinegh,  stepped  out — incredibly 
shrunken,  altered,  and  uncertain  of  step.  Far  different 
had  he  left  London  for  India  less  than  a  year  before,  a 
hard,  weathered,  full-blooded  man.  Routledge  hungered 
now  for  his  friend  of  friends,  but  he  did  not  call. 

In    the    Rubicon    Buffet,    across    the    Square,    the 


The  Hate  of  London  81 

Review's  cheque  was  handed  him  presently  by  a  mes 
senger.  The  outcast  signed  the  receipt,  and  sat  down 
dazedly,  forgetting  to  drink.  An  hour  later,  Burling- 
Forster  entered  the  buffet  with  some  friends  from  the 
Armory.  The  artilleryman  saw  Routledge  at  a  far  table 
and  backed  out. 

"  We  will  go  on,"  said  he.  "  I  perceive  that  this  is 
no  place  for  us." 

The  manager's  quick  eye  had  seen  Burling-Forster's 
glance  rest  upon  the  solitary  figure  at  the  distant  table, 
and  he  stared  doubtfully  now  at  Routledge.  The  latter 
rose  and  approached  him.  "  Forgive  me,"  he  said, 
quitting  the  place.  "  Not  for  fortunes  would  I  impair 
the  popularity  of  your  excellent  buffet." 

London  had  changed  in  an  hour ;  it  was  pitiless,  alien. 
Yet  he  could  laugh  at  London.  The  thought  that  made 
him  writhe  had  to  do  with  the  gorgeous  woman  who  had 
cast  herself  into  the  debris  of  his  fortunes — the  woman 
who  had  meant  so  much  to  him  in  the  silences  of  service. 
.  .  .  He  moved  about  in  the  fog;  passed  the  Review 
office,  glanced  up  at  the  fourth  floor,  the  blazing  lights 
just  a  pale  glimmer  now.  Friends  were  there,  putting 
their  best  of  brain  and  hand  into  the  maw  of  the  morning 
paper.  The  cutting  sentences  of  Dartmore  returned, 
and  he  did  not  go  upstairs.  In  the  little  press-club  around 
the  corner,  the  day  men  were  in  festival.  Routledge 
winced — and  passed  by.  There  was  time  still  to  catch 
a  night-train  for  Paris,  but  he  couldn't  let  the  mystery 
beat  him,  not  even  for  the  glisten  of  Paris — not  for  New 
Jerusalem !  He  would  wait  and  ask  no  questions.  A 
broad,  low  building  very  lavish  with  its  music,  lights, 
and  laughter  appeared  at  length  upon  the  right  of  way. 


82  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Routledge  inquired  of  a  policeman  what  was  going  on 
within. 

"  It's  the  cab-drivers'  annual  'op,  sir,"  the  officer  said. 

"  May  one  enter  who  is  not  a  cab-driver  at  present  ?  " 
Routledge  asked. 

"  'Avin'  the  price,  sir." 

All  things  to  all  men,  Routledge  fell  gladly  into  the 
gathering,  buying  seas  of  beer  and  continents  of  cake. 
Within  a  half-hour  he  had  telephoned  to  Rupley's  for  a 
ten-story  confection,  and  presently  many  couples,  shin 
ing-faced,  were  preening  and  pirouetting  for  the  pos 
session  of  it.  Had  he  been  the  King's  groom,  he  could 
not  have  mounted  higher  in  the  estimate  of  the  guests. 
His  heart  grew  warm  with  the  fun.  It  was  after  mid 
night  when  the  new  social  stratum  tumbled  about  his 
ears.  The  hard-headed  little  master  of  ceremonies 
approached,  very  white  and  sorrowful: 

"  I  regrets  hexceedingly  to  say,  sir,  that  one  as  'as 
been  dismissed  from  the  Harmy's  and  the  Noivy's  'op, 
sir,  cawn't  rightly  be  expected  to  find  a  boith  'ere." 

Routledge  had  a  large  view  of  the  world,  and  a  com 
pressed  notion  of  the  personal  equation,  but  his  humor 
did  not  save  him  now  from  being  stung  hard  and  deep. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  I'm  very 
sorry  to  have  intruded,  and  very  thankful  for  the  good 
time  up  to  now.  Good-night." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  sorrow  from  many  feminine 
quarters  when  the  great  frieze  coat  was  brought,  but 
it  was  quickly  silenced  by  the  undertone  of  intelligence 
which  spread  like  poison  through  the  hall.  The  butler 
at  the  Army  and  Navy  reception  had  told  one  of  the 
drivers,  who,  turning  up  later  at  the  celebration  of  his 


The  Hate  of  London  83 

own  guild,  found  the  outcast  there.  Thus  have  empires 
fallen. 

Routledge  walked  the  full  distance  to  his  lodgings. 
Sometimes  he  smiled ;  sometimes  he  found  himself  strid 
ing  forward  with  mad  swiftness;  then  he  would  smile 
again,  and  pull  up  to  the  pace  of  a  leisurely  gentleman 
enjoying  the  night  air.  Entering  his  stairway  in  Book 
stalls,  he  just  avoided  stumbling  over  a  little  figure  curled 
up  asleep.  His  heart  went  out  to  the  street-waif.  Here 
was  one,  at  least,  in  London  who  had  no  hate  nor  insult 
for  him.  The  impulse  came  to  carry  the  little  one  up 
into  the  warmth.  Without  waking,  the  child  was  placed 
in  a  big  chair  before  the  grate-fire  in  the  lodgings  up 
stairs.  Then  Routledge  sat  down  to  meditate. 

"  This  is  a  merry  old  trail — God  knows  I  love  it !  * 
he  muttered.  "  I  have  had  what  the  good  gray  poet 
would  call  a  night  of  '  richness  and  variety/  .  .  . 
Perhaps  I  would  be  less  happy  did  I  know  the  breed  of 
incubus  which  has  fallen  upon  me.  ...  I  shall  prob 
ably  be  turned  out  of  here  in  the  morning — perhaps  be 
cast  into  stone  and  steel.  It  is  strange,  strange,  that  I, 
Routledge,  whose  business  it  is  to  tell  the  world  the 
gossip  of  inner  courts  and  the  issue  of  open  fields — 
that  the  point  of  my  own  fate  should  be  buried  in  me 
before  I  get  a  look  at  it!  .  .  .  And  that  wondrous 
girl!  Why  did  I  not  know  her  when  the  dust  of  the 
world  had  not  fallen  upon  me;  when  I  had  not  looked 
upon  the  world's  red  wines — because  they  were  red! 
.  .  .  Routledge,  old  wanderer,  how  often  has  some 
woman  arisen  to  save  you  from  death — and  now  a  woman 
arises  to  save  you  from  your  friends !  " 

A  watcher  would  have  thought,  for  a  long  time  after- 


84  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

ward,  that  Routledge  dozed,  with  the  stem  of  a  nargileh 
between  his  teeth,  except  for  the  soft  bubbling  in  the 
bottle  and  the  tiny  puffs  of  smoke  at  long  intervals.  The 
dawn  came  in,  graduated  from  gloomy  gray  to  the  dead- 
white  of  a  sunless  morning.  .  .  .  The  bell  aroused 
him.  He  arose  and  opened  the  door.  Jerry  Cardinegh 
was  on  the  stairs. 


SIXTH  CHAPTER 

A  GRIM  AND  TERRIBLE  TRADITION  IS  TOUCHED 

UPON  FOR  THE  RELATION  IT  BEARS  TO 

THE  TREACHERY  IN  INDIA 

ROUTLEDGE  stepped  back  from  the  open  door.  He 
was  afraid  to  extend  his  hand,  lest  it  be  repelled.  When 
the  old  man  rushed  across  the  landing  and  gripped  him, 
he  felt  a  rather  novel  kindling  of  gladness. 

"  God,  son !  "  Cardinegh  muttered,  sinking  into  a 
chair.  "  I  thought  you  had  slipped  London.  This  is  the 
third  time  I've  been  here  the  last  ten  hours." 

"  It  must  have  been  three  this  morning  when  I  came 
in,  Jerry,  and  I  left  about  nine  last  night." 

"  I  was  here  between  nine  and  ten,  and  again  at 
midnight." 

"  Then  you  didn't  stay  long  at  the  Armory  ?  You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  the  boys  gave  you  an  ovation — 
of  my  kind?  Miss  Noreen  must  have  told  you." 

"  Routledge,"  the  other  said  slowly,  struggling  to 
get  a  tight  rein  upon  a  herd  of  flying  faculties,  "  they 
welcomed  me  in  the  old  way,  but  the  place  was  dis 
ordered.  You  had  been  gone  only  a  moment  or  two. 
Noreen  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  ladies'  room — ready 
for  the  street.  She  would  have  gone  home  alone  had  I 
not  arrived  just  then.  Hurrying  me  away,  she  told  me 
how  you  had  been  received.  After  that,  she  insisted  upon 
coming  here  with  me,  though  I  told  her  I  wanted  to  talk 
with  you  alone.  Give  me  some  whiskey." 

85 


86  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Routledge  was  startled  by  the  shaking  avidity  with 
which  Cardinegh  carried  the  raw  spirit  to  his  lips. 

"  We  came  here  direct  from  the  Armory — Noreen 
and  I,"  he  said  breathlessly.  "  When  we  did  not  find 
you,  we  drove  back  to  Cheer  Street — and  tossed  the 
rest  of  the  night.  God  pity  her — I  couldn't  tell  her! 
Routledge,  I  didn't  dare  to  tell  her!  .  .  .  She 
begged  me  to  assure  you  again  and  again  of  her  faith. 
She  will  see  you  to-day " 

There  was  a  faint  sigh  and  a  soft  squirming  from  the 
third  chair  before  the  fire.  It  had  been  turned  away 
from  the  light.  Cardinegh  jumped  to  his  feet  with 
horror  in  his  face. 

"  You're  nervous,  old  King-maker.  Why,  it's  just 
a  little  London  waif  I  picked  up  asleep  in  my  stairway." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  has  heard  what  I've  said  ?  "  the 
old  man  demanded  huskily. 

"  You  haven't  said  anything  yet  that  the  world  might 
not  hear.  Sit  down  and  smoke,  Jerry.  God  still  reigns, 
and  we're  Home." 

Cardinegh  stared  at  the  little  figure  curled  up  before 
the  fire,  catching  his  breath  audibly. 

"  I'm  all  shot  up,'-'  he  panted.  "  Say,  but  it's  like  you, 
son,  to  pick  up  the  little  outcast." 

Routledge  smiled,  because  the  last  word  had  a  big 
and  new  meaning.  "  Perhaps  our  voices  will  bother  him. 
I'll  put  the  lad  in  the  next  room,"  he  said,  and  untangled 
the  knotted  muddy  laces,  placing  the  wet,  worn  shoes 
evenly  before  the  fire.  As  he  lifted  the  boy  in  his  arms, 
the  eyes  opened  sleepily,  but  Routledge  could  not  see 
the  face  pressed  against  his  shoulder.  They  were  drowsy, 
startled  eyes,  wise  and  very  shiny,  like  those  of  a  mouse. 


A  Grim  and  Terrible  Tradition          87 

Routledge  laid  him  upon  his  own  bed  and  dropped  a 
blanket  over  him.  "  Poor  little  gaffer,  you  smell  like 
Bookstalls  Road,"  he  muttered.  "  I  could  pick  you  out 
blind  among  the  odors  of  India.  Nothing  short  of  a 
riot  could  keep  you  awake,  but  poor  old  Jerry  will  talk 
easier  with  you  here — and  the  door  shut." 

He  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  other,  and  said  geni 
ally  :  "  And  now,  Jerry,  tell  me  what  is  good  for  me  to 
know." 

"  Did  you  have  a  ghastly  night,  son, — your  first  night 
at  Home  in  over  a  year  ?  " 

"  I  prefer  to  call  it  an  interesting  night." 

"  You  are  about  to  rise  with  cumulative  glory.  Do 
you  remember  our  last  talk  in  the  field — the  bivouac  at 
Bhurpal  ?  " 

Routledge  nodded. 

"  And  you  suggested  that  the  spies  of  the  Russian 
Bear  had  worked  down  over  the  hills,  and  looted  certain 
startling  secrets  having  to  do  with  British  India?" 

"  It  was  only  a  suggestion.  The  facts  are  not  clear 
to  me  yet.  There  was  a  colossal  derangement  some 
where — the  same,  I  take  it,  that  hurled  England  into  alli 
ance  with  Japan.  I  appear  to  be  the  only  man  in  London 
who  has  been  denied  the  truth."  Routledge  reached  for 
the  amber-bit  of  his  nargileh. 

"  They  say  a  man  is  last  to  hear  what  is  going  on  in 
his  own  house." 

"What  is  the  parallel,  Jerry?" 

"  I've  got  to  come  to  that.  All  London  does  not  know 
—except  that  you  are  under  a  cloud  for  treachery.  Forty 
men  in  London  know  exactly  what  has  happened  in 
India.  Perhaps  ten  of  this  forty  were  at  the  reception 


88  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

last  night.  The  forty  believe  you  to  be  the  man  who 
turned  the  monster  trick  in  Afghanistan,  well-called  the 
Buffer  State.  They  are  the  exalted  heads  of  Depart 
ments — Foreign,  Home,  Colonial,  War,  and  Secret-ser 
vice  chiefs — men  who  live  in  the  shadow  of  the  Throne. 
Six,  at  most,  of  the  correspondents  are  in  the  secret.  The 
rest  can't  tell  what  you  did,  but  to  them,  just  the  same, 
you  are  the  ranking  Iscariot.  .  .  .  Routledge,  how 
many  men  know  the  truth  about  Shubar  Khan's  Lotus 
Expedition  ?  " 

"  Possibly  the  same  forty  men." 

"  And  the  soldiers  of  Colonel  Hammond's  regiment?  " 

"  That  is  a  historical  mystery,"  Routledge  said. 
"  Many  are  dead ;  the  rest  scattered  and  lost.  The  secret 
was  miraculously  preserved.  Why,  this  is  the  master 
piece  of  England's  department  of  espionage." 

"  The  records  of  Colonel  Hammond's  debauch  in 
blood  were  stolen  last  autumn,"  Cardinegh  whispered. 
"  The  whole  story  was  stolen — Hammond's  confession, 
the  testimony  of  his  court-martial,  even  to  the  disposal 
of  the  men  of  his  regiment — the  men  who  knew  all! 
.  .  .  God!  what  a  story  for  Russia  to  put  into  the 
hands  of  the  thrice  ten  thousand  sons  and  sons'  sons  of 
Shubar  Khan  in  Afghanistan !  " 

Cardinegh  laughed  in  an  uncontrolled  way. 

"  Routledge,  my  son,"  he  went  on  nervously,  "  when 
the  Pathans  and  the  Afridis  turn  to  war,  British  India 
forgets  her  polo  and  her  billiards  and  her  forestry.  .  .  . 
It  all  dates  from  the  Kabul  massacre — you  remember, 
sixteen  thousand  white  men  and  women  and  children 
killed.  Colonel  Hammond's  father  and  mother  were 
among  the  dead.  He  was  but  a  mite  of  a  boy  then,  but 


A  Grim  and  Terrible  Tradition  89 

it  drove  him  mad  when  he  became  a  man  and  was  sent 
back  to  the  same  service  as  a  colonel.  You  are  one  of 
the  forty,  Routledge.  You  know  the  story.  The  Khyber 
Hills  and  the  same  old  trail  where  his  parents  were  slain 
started  a  leak  in  Hammond's  skull.  He  was  a  good 
officer  before  that,  or  he  would'nt  have  been  a  colonel. 
That  leak  grew  into  the  torrent  which  washed  away  the 
mountain  that  fell  upon  Shubar  Khan's  twenty-five  hun 
dred — men,  women  and  children — down  below  in  the 
valley " 

"  That's  a  nice  figure  of  speech,"  Routledge  said 
soothingly.  "  But,  Jerry,  the  facts,  as  I  heard  them  were 
these :  Colonel  Hammond  lost  his  mother  and  father  on 
the  same  trail  he  was  leading  his  troops  over  that  night. 
That  he  had  gone  mad,  everybody  grants — from  much 
brooding  on  the  old  Kabul  massacre.  He  was  out  after 
Shubar  Khan  with  his  regiment,  and  just  before  dusk 
discerned  the  bivouac  of  the  Pathans  thousands  of  feet 
below  in  a  valley.  Shubar  Khan  had  fifteen  hundred 
soldiers,  and  a  thousand  women  and  children  had  joined 
their  men  in  camp. 

"  Hammond's  original  idea  was  to  meet  the  Pathans 
in  battle,  but  he  happened  to  see  this  cliff  hanging  pre 
cariously  over  the  steep  slope.  Now  Hammond  was  a 
famed  engineer.  Mad  as  he  was,  he  did  not  forget  his 
craft.  As  for  the  women  and  children  whom  his  scouts 
reported  below — this  only  made  the  madman  more  keen. 
Remember,  his  mother  had  died  just  there.  ...  He 
looked  at  the  slope,  and  saw  that  if  he  could  start  the 
cliff,  he  could  send  an  avalanche  upon  the  crowded  camp. 
It  wasn't  fighting.  England  wouldn't  have  done  it,  but 
we're  dealing  with  the  insanity  of  a  single  leader.  Ham- 


90  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

mond  had  dynamite.  Also  the  Pathans  didn't  know  that 
the  English  regiment  was  above.  The  cliff  was  aimed 
at  the  camp.  The  blast  worked.  Falling  rock  dug  a 
trench  in  the  mountain,  gaining  tons  of  power  every 
foot  of  slide.  What  happened  has  been  kept  secret  by 
the  British,  but  you  and  I  know.  Twenty-five  hundred 
Pathans — including  a  thousand  women  and  children — 
were  buried  alive.  If  Hammond  had  been  able  to  keep 
his  remnant  of  a  brain,  it  would  never  have  come  out, 
but  he  was  raving  when  he  brought  his  outfit  back  to 
headquarters,  and  this  started  his  men  to  thinking.  A 
little  thinking  and  they  understood  all.  The  towering 
atrocity,  no  one  denies,  but  it  was  done  by  a  madman — 
not  by  England,  Jerry." 

"  The  Pathans  thought  it  a  natural  landslide — until 
last  autumn,"  Cardinegh  remarked,  and  there  was  exul 
tation  in  his  eyes. 

A  chill  swept  over  Routledge  for  an  instant,  as  if 
he  had  been  in  the  presence  of  a  human  without  a  soul. 
The  colossal  havoc  wrought  decades  ago  by  an  insane 
Englishman  was  not  a  thing  to  be  talked  about  as 
Cardinegh  talked — his  eyes  gleaming  with  triumph. 
Even  the  Afghans  had  never  learned  the  truth,  so  perfect 
was  the  British  management.  They  looked  upon  the 
avalanche  as  a  dreadful  chastisement  of  the  gods.  They 
had  gone  back  to  scratch  their  rocky  fields  and  raise  their 
scrawny  lambs  with  a  growing  belief  that  the  gods 
wanted  the  English  in  their  land,  and  that  gods  who  could 
turn  loose  mysterious  landslides  knew  best. 

The  ghosts  of  Shubar  Khan's  twenty-five  hundred — 
trooping  through  the  monster  hills  on  the  darkest  nights 
— they  could  not  speak.  The  soldiers  of  the  mad  colonel 


A  Grim  and  Terrible  Tradition          91 

— had  they  not  all  been  divided,  sent  to  fill  the  loneliest 
posts  and  the  most  hazardous  fore-fronts,  under  the 
eyes  of  the  secret-service  men  who  see  all  and  say  noth 
ing?  ...  It  was  not  England's  fault,  this  work  of  a 
crazed  Englishman  who  undertook  to  avenge  the  mas 
sacre  of  the  sixteen  thousand.  It  was  a  thing  to  be 
hidden  deep  in  the  hearts  of  a  few — this  grim  and  terrible 
history. 

To  have  Russia  get  it  now — the  indisputable  docu 
ments — would  enable  her  to  start  Afghanistan  boiling 
again.  The  Border  States  and  all  India  would  be  em 
broiled.  More  than  all,  the  British  troops  serving  in 
India  would  be  lashed  into  mutiny  by  the  story  of  what 
happened  to  the  men  of  Colonel  Hammond's  regiment — 
the  men  who  knew  all.  Yes,  Russia  could  build  her  great 
war  upon  it — the  long-prophesied  war — and  drive  her 
puppets  against  England  for  the  possession  of  northern 
India. 

Routledge  was  filled  with  shuddering  by  these 
thoughts  of  war,  and  by  the  man  before  him,  laughing 
softly,  insanely,  and  drinking  raw  whiskey — another 
Colonel  Hammond  in  the  flesh ! 

"  Let  me  get  this  straight,  Jerry,"  he  said  lightly. 
"  One  man  steals  the  documents  which  tell  the  whole 
truth  about  Shubar  Khan,  and  puts  the  story  in  the  hands 
of  the  Russians " 

"  And  at  what  a  time ! "  Cardinegh  exclaimed  pas 
sionately.  "  When  did  Abduraman  die  ?  " 

"  Last  October.  He  was  a  valuable  man  for  the 
British,"  Routledge  added  thoughtfully.  "  He  held  the 
Pathans  and  the  Afridis  from  fighting  the  English,  and 


92  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

at  the  same  time  managed  to  avoid  angering  Russia.  He 
was  the  man  for  the  Buffer  State." 

"  His  sons  are  not  so  valuable."  Cardinegh  chuckled. 
"  Abduraman  died  of  a  stroke,  as  the  newspapers  said. 
It  was  a  stroke !  .  .  .  When  was  Cantrell,  the  British 
Agent  in  Kabul,  murdered  ?  " 

"  A  month  later." 

"  When  were  we  all  called  in  from  the  field  and 
Bhurpal  forgotten  ?  " 

"A  month  later  still." 

"  What  a  God-given  time  it  was ! "  the  old  man 
exclaimed. 

Routledge  saw  the  need  of  holding  Cardinegh 
together  until  he  could  get  the  whole  story.  "  I  can  see 
clearly  how  one  man  might  use  these  documents  to  start 
war  in  Afghanistan,"  he  capitulated ;  "  how  Russia  could 
spread  the  hell  all  along  the  border,  supplying  powder 
and  guns,  and  getting  a  formidable  enemy  launched 
against  England,  before  taking  the  field  herself.  I  can 
even  see  how  all  India,  '  seething  with  hatred  for  her 
white  child,  the  British  foundling ' — I  always  liked  that 
sentence — might  arise  and  say,  '  This  is  the  accepted 
time.'  More  than  that,  I  can  see  how  the  story  of  Colonel 
Hammond's  lost  regiment  might  start  a  contagion  of 
mutiny  patches  over  the  British  army " 

"  Some  work  for  one  man." 

"  Big  work,  Jerry,"  Routledge  agreed.  "  I  can  see  it 
all  so  far,  but  you  will  have  to  pardon  me  for  having  a 
little  interest  left  in  the  fact,  that  I  was  practically 
ejected  from  the  Armory  last  night." 

The  old  man  fell  silent  and  his  fears  whipped  him 
again.  "  Don't  murder  me  until  I  am  through,  son. 


A  Grim  and  Terrible  Tradition  93 

You  are  supposed  to  be  the  man  who  gave  the  story  to 
the  Russian  spies." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Routledge.  "  I  am  supposed  to  be  the 
man,  and  yet  no  one  consulted  me  upon  the  matter.  If 
I  were  merely  supposed  to  be  the  man — would  I  have 
been  turned  out?  " 

"  The  forty  who  know  the  story — have  no  doubt 
about  you." 

Here  a  great  light  was  thrown  upon  the  recent  activ 
ity  of  the  White  Mustache.  "  Why  am  I  not  arrested, 
Jerry?" 

"  The  Government  does  not  dare." 

"Publicity?" 

"  Exactly.  .The  truth  about  Afghanistan  to-day  is  a 
secret  guarded  with  men's  lives.  Arbitration  is  afire 
between  here  and  Petersburg.  If  India  and  Russia  saw 
the  British  people  aroused,  the  chances  are  that  they 
would  be  forced  to  strike  at  once.  Soldiers  are  being 
rushed  secretly  toward  Khyber  Pass.  Troop-ships  are 
embarking  suddenly  and  without  ostentation  from  Eng 
land  this  moment.  To  make  this  story  public — and  this 
would  be  in  danger  by  your  arrest — would  start  the 
Indian  sympathizers  around  the  world.  The  mere  name 
of  Shubar  Khan  brings  old  England  to  her  knees.  This 
has  been  a  pregnant  day  in  the  Inner  Circle,  my  son. 
No,  you  will  not  be  arrested." 

"  Why  am  I  not  murdered  quietly?  " 

"  The  same  reason,  with  another.  I  attended  to  that. 
Every  one  who  knows  this  story  of  Shubar  Khan  must 
be  reckoned  with.  I  told  them  that  you  must  be  kept 
alive — that  I  could  secure  your  written  confession.  They 
believe  that  I  am  at  it  now." 


94  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Routledge  was  throwing  the  whole  strength  of  his 
concentrated  faculties  into  the  eyes  of  the  old  man. 
Cardinegh's  face  was  like  death. 

"  Where  did  you  meet  the  secret  agents  ?  " 

"  At  Naples.  They  had  me  on  the  carpet  almost 
before  I  left  ship." 

"  This  is  the  most  absorbing  tale  I  have  ever  encoun 
tered,  Jerry.  I  am  to  give  you  a  written  confession  of 
how  I  fell  in  with  the  Russians  and  gave  them  the  docu 
ments  concerning  Shubar  Khan,  which  I  had  stolen. 
Why  did  you  choose  me  to  make  this  confession — because 
I  am  your  best  friend  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Cardinegh  answered  hoarsely ;  "  because  you 
are  my  best  friend.  Not  another  man  in  the  world  would 
have  carried  the  burden  for  me.  They  would  never  have 
let  me  reach  London." 

Routledge  bent  forward  and  spoke  with  lowered 
voice :  "  Then  it  was  you  who  fell  in  with  the  Rus 
sians " 

"  Yes." 

Routledge  couldn't  help  it — the  presence  of  the  other 
put  a  poisoned  look  into  his  face  for  an  instant.  The  last 
fifteen  minutes  he  had  endured  every  phase  of  astonish 
ment  and  horror.  The  revelation  shook  the  psychic  roots 
of  his  being. 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  son — don't  look  at  me  that 
way !  Wait  till  I  have  told  you  all.  I  thought  you  were 
already  in  London — with  Noreen.  I  was  in  Italy,  and 
they  never  would  have  let  me  reach  here.  I  never  could 
have  seen  her — or  Cheer  Street  again." 

Pity  came  to  Routledge.  He  looked  down  upon  the 
wreck  of  Jerry  Cardinegh.  He  caught  up  his  own  nerve- 


A  Grim  and  Terrible  Tradition  95 

ends  and  bound  them  together,  smiled,  and  placed  his 
hand  upon  the  old  man's  knee. 

"  How  often  I  have  found  it,"  he  said  musingly, 
"  that  a  day  like  yesterday  portends  great  events.  I  had 
the  queerest  sort  of  a  day  yesterday,  Jerry.  Hour  after 
hour  I  sat  here,  neglecting  things  which  needed  doing, 
thinking,  thinking.  I  have  found  it  so  before  in  my 
life — days  like  yesterday  preceding  a  crisis.  .  .  . 
Weren't  any  of  the  other  boys  suspected,  or  any  of  the 
soldiers?  Why  was  it  that  the  finger  of  the  episode 
pointed  to  you  or  me  ?  " 

"  Since  October  the  whole  occult  force  of  the  Empire 
has  been  upon  the  case,"  Cardinegh  answered.  "  It  was 
a  civilian  job  on  the  face  of  it.  That  was  incontro 
vertible.  All  the  other  boys  fell  under  the  eyes  of  the 
service.  They  didn't  know  it,  of  course,  but  each  day 
of  the  past  four  months  we  have  been  covered,  our  pasts 
balanced.  One  after  another,  the  process  of  elimination 
vindicated  them — all  but  you  and  me.  Your  infernal 
habit  of  campaigning  alone  was  against  you,  your  being 
an  American,  your  Brahmin  affiliations,  your  uncanny 
knowledge  of  the  Great  Inside.  Still,  they  took  nothing 
for  granted.  At  Naples  two  agents  drew  me  to  cover, 
demanding  what  I  knew.  It  was  you  or  I.  They  knew 
it,  and  I  knew  it.  The  bulk  of  suspicion  leaned  your 
way.  I  shaped  more  evidence  against  you,  hinted  that 
I  could  secure  your  confession,  if  they  only  let  me  alone 
until  I  could  get  to  you." 

"  Tell  me  again  just  why,  Jerry." 

"  Because  I  wanted  a  clay — just  one  day !  I  hadn't 
seen  Noreen  for  nearly  a  year.  I  wanted  a  day  with  her. 
I  needed  to  arrange  her  affairs.  God  help  me,  Routledge, 


96  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

I  wanted  her  to  love  the  old  man — cn*e  more  day!  I 
couldn't  cable  you.  I  thought — I  thought  you  would 
hold  the  weight  one  day — for  old  sake's  sake !  " 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do,  Jerry  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  my  day.  I  am  going  to  the  War  Depart 
ment  with  the  facts  this  morning !  " 

"And  then?" 

"  Vanish." 

"  And  your  daughter — Miss  Noreen  ?  " 

Cardinegh  swallowed  with  difficulty.  His  unsteady 
fingers  fumbled  at  the  place  where  a  man  in  the  field 
carries  a  bit  of  ordnance.  The  ghost  of  a  smile  shook 
itself  out  on  his  face. 

"  Don't  think  I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "  I  joggled  the 
seats  of  the  mighty.  It  was  a  life's  work.  I've  got  my 
joy  for  it.  It's  not  what  I  expected — but  it's  done.  I 
can't  see  the  good  of  it  clear  as  I  did — but  it's  done. 
Only  I  wanted  to  look  it  in  the  face  like  the  old  Jerry 
Cardinegh  might  have  done — not  sick,  shaking,  and  half- 
drunk.  I  should  have  done  it  when  the  little  house  in 
Cheer  Street  only  meant  to  me  a  sweet  resting-place 
between  wars.  I  burned  out  before  the  end,  my  son." 

"  But  Noreen " 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  don't  drive  that  home  again ! 
She'll  never  know  what  the  forty  know.  She's  provided 
for.  I  have  had  my  day — thanks  to  you.  They'll  let  me 
clear  from  England.  I'm  accustomed  to  take  short- 
notice  trips,  and  to  stay  long.  She  will  hear — as  she 
always  feared  some  time  to  hear — oh,  typhoid  in  Mada 
gascar,  a  junk  murder  up  the  Yangtse — potted  some 
where  !  .  .  .  Blessed  little  Noreen.  In  tears  she 
told  me  what  had  happened  to  you  at  the  Armory.  Think 


A  Grim  and  Terrible  Tradition          97 

how  I  felt,  son.  She  loves  you,  Routledge.  What — 
what  I've  done  doesn't  affect  her  value — in  your  eyes  ?  " 

"Jerry,  how  did  you  get  away  with  this  thing  in 
India?" 

"  Nobody  knows  but  me.  I  suppose  I'd  better  tell 
you.  Before  my  last  short  trip  home,  there  was  a  rumor 
of  fighting  in  Afghanistan.  You  remember,  eight  or  nine 
British  correspondents  gathered  there,  including  you  and 
me.  Cantrell  and  I  were  rather  close ;  and  old  Abdura- 
man,  I  think,  trusted  me  more  than  any  of  the  others,  on 
account  of  my  age  and  service.  He  was  an  insatiable 
listener,  and  a  perfect,  an  improved,  double-action  pump. 
I  think  it  was  one  of  the  elements  of  his  greatness — the 
wily  old  diplomat. 

"  Any  way,  I  was  closeted  with  him  many  times. 
You  would  come  in  at  night  after  studying  the  strategic 
points  of  that  devil's  land;  no  doubt,  from  Kabul  to  the 
Pass.  For  once  in  my  life,  I  was  content  with  office 
work.  I  mean  Abduraman's  court  and  his  thoughts. 
Then,  too,  I  was  much  with  Cantrell,  who  was  a  sort  of 
secret-service  chief  in  that  district,  as  you  well  under 
stand.  From  time  to  time  the  different  agents  would 
come  in  for  a  night — the  men  who  do  the  dirty  work  for 
England." 

Cardinegh's  eyes  blazed  again.  With  a  few  admirable 
sentences,  Routledge  steadied  him  and  regained  the  con 
tinuity.  .  .  . 

"  It  was  a  still  night,  hot  as  hell,"  Cardinegh  went 
on.  "  Kabul  can  be  hot  when  the  winds  die  down  from 
the  mountains — but  you  were  there  that  night.  You 
know.  I  was  in  Cantrell's  house.  Three  of  the  Nameless 
who  serve  England  with  their  lives,  and  are  satisfied 
7 


98  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

with  a  cipher  message  or  a  whispered  word  of  praise 
from  some  head  of  department " 

"  I've  studied  the  secret-service,  Jerry,"  Routledge 
ventured  mildly.  "  It  is  interesting,  but  I'm  more  inter 
ested  to  know  what  happened." 

"  We  all  proceeded  to  relax.  The  devil  in  me  would 
not  be  burned  by  the  fieriest  wines.  Remember,  Cantrell 
was  a  weak  man,  but  sincere.  The  other  three  had  been 
studying  Afghanistan  against  towering  odds.  They  knew 
more  about  the  inner  life  of  the  Buffer  State  than  any 
three  white  men,  not  excepting  Cantrell  and  yourself, 
between  Persia  and  British  India.  They  were  sure  of 
Cantrell.  As  for  old  Jerry  Cardinegh — why,  they  took 
me  for  granted. 

"  Presently — it  was  very  late — everybody  but  old 
Jerry  had  the  bars  down  and  soaked.  Then  I  ventured 
to  open  the  question  of  Colonel  Hammond.  It  was  an 
old  story  to  Cantrell  and  to  the  three — not  a  new  story 
to  me,  but  a  strange  one.  I  was  fascinated  by  the  inside 
talk.  Here  were  men  who  had  kept  the  secret  for  years ; 
the  men — at  least,  two  of  them — who  had  helped  to 
scatter  the  British  troops  of  Colonel  Hammond. 

"  Suddenly  Cantrell  arose  and  staggered  to  his  safe, 
glancing  at  the  shut  door  and  the  open  windows  of  the 
office.  He  fumbled  with  the  knob  for  a  long  time  before 
the  big  door  swung  open.  Then  with  small  keys  which 
he  found  inside  he  got  into  the  inner  compartment  and 
drew  forth  a  fat  envelope. 

"  '  Speaking  of  Colonel  Hammond,'  Cantrell  said,  with 
a  drunken  smile,  '  I've  got  the  whole  documents  here. 
They  were  never  trusted  to  the  mails,  but  they  trusted 


A  Grim  and  Terrible  Tradition  99 

me.  I've  never  brought  them  out  before — but  we  have 
fallen  into  the  arms  of  our  friends.  Isn't  it  so  ? ' 

"  We  all  acquiesced,  and  then  there  was  interesting 
reading.  Routledge,  it  was  the  great  story  I  had  been 
looking  for — all  that  I  wanted  to  know  about  one  of  the 
most  damnable  military  expeditions  ever  transacted.  I 
said  to  myself  the  world  ought  to  know  about  this.  That 
was  because  I  was  a  newspaper  man.  Then  I  said  again, 
'  The  world  ought  to  know  about  this/  and  that  was  the 
humanitarian  end.  I  was  thinking  of  Ireland  and  India. 

"  Two  of  the  secret  service  men  were  asleep  finally. 
Cantrell  moved  about  and  served  on  legs  of  hot  wax. 

" '  I'm  glad  you  put  that  back  in  the  safe,  Cantrell/ 
I  said,  when  the  envelope  was  safely  in  my  pocket.  '  You 
could  do  a  lot  of  damage  to  England  with  that  just 
now/ 

"  I  glanced  at  the  secret  agent  who  was  awake,  and 
found  that  he  was  not  in  on  my  steal.  I  should  have 
made  a  joke  of  it,  if  he  had  been.  The  fact  is,  I  did  not 
really  have  the  idea  of  stealing  the  papers  until  I  found 
that  I  had  done  it.  ...  Cantrell  locked  the  safe, 
and  the  world  was  mine — all  in  a  coat  pocket !  .  .  . 
You  mind,  when  Cantrell  was  killed,  or  assassinated,  the 
safe  was  blown  open — quite  a  while  afterward?  I  had 
been  back  to  England  and  to  Ireland  with  Noreen  in 
the  meantime. 

"  God,  how  I  have  whipped  the  English !  .  .  . 
When  your  name  was  spoken  last  night  at  the  Armory, 
the  faces  about  me  were  like  a  lot  of  blood-mad  dogs — 
nostrils  dilated  and  hackles  up.  I  had  to  love  you, 
Routledge,  to  turn  loose  upon  you — the  Hate  of  London!  " 


100  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  And  you  had  the  Hammond  papers  all  the  time  you 
were  in  England  and  Ireland  ? "  Routledge  inquired. 

"  Of  course.  I  had  only  a  few  weeks  in  Europe  before 
I  was  called  back  to  the  Bhurpal  skirmish-stuff.  You 
had  stayed  in  India " 

"  But  when  and  where  did  you  get  the  papers  to  the 
Russian  spies,  Jerry  ?  " 

"  In  Bhurpal — as  that  affair  opened.  It  was  weeks 
before  I  met  you  that  night  of  the  gathering  when  the 
two  British  forces  came  together.  I  stopped  at  the  Rest 
House  in  Sarjilid,  on  the  way  by  train  from  Calcutta  to 
the  front.  It  was  there  I  heard  a  Russian  sentence  from 
an  alleged  Parsee.  I  was  onto  the  spy  in  a  moment,  but 
first  I  want  to  tell  you  why  I  turned  over  the  papers  to 
him.  First,  rather,  I  want  a  drink  of  whiskey.  I'm  talk 
ing  thick  and  fast,  and  it  burns  out  the  energy." 

Routledge  served  him.  "  Why  you  gave  Cantrell's 
papers  to  the  first  Russian  spy  you  met  in  India  is  what 
I  want  to  know,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"Listen,  then.  The  idea  came  to  me  before  I  went 
out  to  India  on  that  Bhurpalese  mix-up.  I  told  you  that 
Noreen  and  I  took  a  little  trip  to  Ireland.  I  shouldn't 
have  gone  back  to  Tyrone — where  her  mother  bloomed — 
where  I  was  a  boy.  I  shouldn't  have  gone  back !  " 

The  old  man's  voice  trembled,  but  he  .did  not  lose  his 
point. 

"  As  it  was,  my  son,  the  thoughts  of  Noreen's  mother 
and  Ireland  were  burning  too  deep  in  memory.  .  .  . 
But  we  went  back.  The  sun  was  going  down  on  the 
little  town.  It  was  dirty,  shrunken,  decayed — that  old 
stone  city — and  the  blithest  place  a  youth  ever  met  a 
maiden,  or  passed  his  boyhood.  .  .  .  Ah,  the 


A  Grim  and  Terrible  Tradition         101 

mothers  and  youths  and  maidens  and  the  memories  of 
old  Tyrone  always  sung  in  my  heart — when  I  could 
forget  England !  " 

Routledge  lit  a  cigarette  over  the  lamp  and  handed 
it  to  Cardinegh  without  speaking.  Jerry  did  not  continue 
for  a  moment.  Then  followed  the  impression  his  birth 
place  made  upon  him — the  veteran  with  his  daughter: 

"  I  can't  forget  our  last  look — the  old  town,  shrunken 
and  silent  in  the  midst  of  her  quarries.  I  heard  the  mut 
tering  in  the  doorways,  as  we  have  heard  it  in  India. 
The  best  blood  had  gone  to  America ;  the  knitting- works 
were  shut  down — the  remnant  starving.  It  was  like  India 
in  plague  and  famine,  but  I  could  have  borne  that. 
.  .  .  It  was  the  next  morning  when  I  saw  the  British 
garrison  quartered  upon  the  town " 

"  You  know  how  Colonel  Hammond  felt  when  some 
thing  sprung  a  leak  in  his  brain,"  Routledge  suggested. 

"  You've  hit  it,  boy.  .  .  .  There  was  the  old 
town,  starving  at  best,  with  three  hundred  British  soldiers 
devouring  its  substance!  It  made  me  think  of  a  fallen 
camel — with  a  red-necked  vulture  for  every  bone  in  the 
carcass.  And  that's  Ireland  and  that's  India !  " 

The  whiskey  was  bright  in  the  old  man's  eyes. 
"  Look  out,  Routledge,  when  you  hear  a  snap  in  your 
brain !  You  said  something  to  that  effect.  .  .  . 
I  went  back  to  India,  as  you  know,  up  from  Calcutta  to 
Sarjilid,  where  I  met  the  Russo-Parsee.  I  thought  of 
Noreen  and  her  mother,  and  Tyrone,  and  the  service  of 
England,  which  I  know  as  well  as  you.  I  thought  of 
India. 

"What  did  I  find  in  Sarjilid?  There  was  a  famine 
there,  too,  and  a  garrison  of  red-necked  vultures;  sand 


102  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

blowing  down  from  the  windy  hills;  stench  from  the 
huts;  voices  from  the  doorways;  a  salt-tax  that  aug 
mented  the  famine  because  the  people  needed  but  could 
not  buy  their  own  product ;  naked  brown  children,  flesh- 
less  as  empty  snake-skins — but  I  won't  go  on!  I  must 
go  to  the  war-office  presently.  ...  It  was  at  Sarjilid 
that  I  met  the  Russian.  ...  It  may  be  that  I  am 
another  Colonel  Hammond,  but  I  gave  the  documents 
away.  He  was  an  enchanting  chap — that  Russian !  " 

Cardinegh  here  whispered  the  details  of  his  treachery. 
The  politics  of  the  world  would  not  be  cleaned  by  the 
dialogue,  but  the  big  fact  remains  that  the  documents 
concerning  Colonel  Hammond's  dynamite  went  into  Rus 
sian  hands — a  fire-brand  for  her  to  ignite  Afghanistan, 
the  Indian  Border,  and  British  mutinies. 

"  Then  I  went  back  into  the  field  to  watch.  Weeks 
passed,"  he  continued  hastily.  "  We  met  in  Bhurpal,  and 
you  told  me  what  you  had  discovered.  I  knew.  Each 
day  was  a  brimming  beaker  of  joy  to  me  then.  I  saw 
British  India  shudder  at  the  broken  vessel  of  her  secrets. 

"  Routledge,  it  was  as  if  you  struck  a  viper  in  the 
spine.  British  India  curled  up.  I  had  struck  her  in  the 
spine.  She  writhed  and  curled  up !" 

Cardinegh  laughed  again.  "  Ireland  will  be  rid  of 
British  garrisons.  They  will  travel  oversea  to  fight  the 
Afghans  and  the  Russians  now.  The  red-necks  at  Sar 
jilid  won't  have  to  travel  so  far!  There'll  be  a  fifty-mile 
battle-front,  as  you  said — you  'amateur  prophet ' !  You 
and  the  other  boys  will  campaign — but  old  Jerry  won't 
be  there.  I've  had  my  day — and  this  is  another  one. 
I'm  off  to  lift  your  load,  my  son." 

The  veteran  campaigner  arose  and  donned  his  coat. 


A  Grim  and  Terrible  Tradition         103 

Routledge  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  room.  Cardinegh 
reached  the  door,  and,  holding  to  the  knob,  spoke  again : 
"  I  know  what  you  think,  my  son.  You  think  that 
my  plan  miscarried.  You  think  that  England  spoiled 
my  work — that  her  treaty  with  Japan  was  my  answer. 
You  think  that  England  will  rub  away  the  rest  of  the 
insulation  between  Russia  and  Japan,  and  that  the  Bear 
will  fuse  into  the  Rising  'Sun — that  all  this  will  pull 
Russia  up  from  the  border  of  British  India.  Ah! 
.  .  .  and  you  think  well.  I  can't  see  it  all  as  clear  as 
I  did  once.  I  can't  feel  the  thought  of  failure  as  I  did 
once.  England  has  time  to  strengthen  her  borders  and 
cover  her  nakedness  if  Russia  and  Japan  fight — but  the 
story  of  Shubar  Khan  is  told  and  my  work  done!  It's 
the  initial  lesion,  Routledge,  and  the  veins  of  British 
India  are  running  with  the  toxin  of  a  disease — some 
times  amenable  to  heroic  treatment — like  the  Anglo- 
Japanese  Alliance — but  always  incurable !  " 


SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  BEGS  FOR  A  STIMULANT— THE  STUFF 
THAT  SINGS  IN  THE  VEINS  OF  KINGS 

RAIN  upon  the  windows.  The  atmosphere  was  heavy 
in  the  lodging,  heavy  from  a  sleepless  night.  Tobacco 
ash  upon  the  floor ;  white  embers  in  the  grate ;  the  finer 
ash  of  burned  emotions  in  the  eyes  of  the  men.  Neither 
had  spoken  for  several  moments.  .  .  .  Whose  was 
to  be  the  desolation  of  war  ?  Was  North  China  or  China 
South  soon  to  rumble  w.ith  the  tramp  of  foreign  armies? 
Routledge  put  the  question  away  among  the  far  concerns 
of  his  mind.  It  was  a  moment  now  to  mourn  the  man 
before  him.  There  never  had  been  an  instant  of  hate  for 
Jerry  Cardinegh — perhaps,  a  full  sweep  of  horror,  at  first, 
but  that  was  gone,  and  in  its  wake  was  a  pity  of 
permanence. 

He  mourned  his  friend  who  was  mad,  dead.  The 
years  had  wrought  a  ghastly  trick  here.  Under  many 
constellations,  he  had  heard  Cardinegh  whisper  his  pas 
sionate  hatred  for  England  and  her  relation  to  Ireland 
and  to  India.  Not  a  little  of  it  Routledge  himself  shared. 
He  perceived  now  that  this  passion  had  devoured  the 
reason  and  sweetness  of  the  old  man's  mind.  The 
Cardinegh  of  old  days  looked  no  longer  out  of  these 
hunted,  red-lit  eyes.  A  pestilence  had  deranged  the  well- 
loved  face.  It  was  evil  now  in  the  fire-light — like  a 
tampered  chart.  A  life  of  brooding  had  vanquished  the 
excellent  humor  at  the  last.  Oppression  had  nursed  a 
104 


Routledge  Begs  for  a  Stimulant         105 

demon  to  obsess  the  brain  and  make  a  shudder  of  a  good 
name. 

"I  must  go,"  Cardinegh  said  roughly.  "It  is  my 
last  day.  This  morning  my  final  arrangements  for 
Noreen.  An  hour  with  her — then  to  the  war-office  with 
the  revelation.  You'll  stay  here,  son.  Stick  to  these 
walls — until  Dartmore  and  the  boys  bring  your  glory 
back  to  you.  ...  I  can  see  them  trooping  in! 
.  .  .  And  Noreen — ah,  the  gladness  of  her !  " 

Routledge  opened  wide  the  windows  and  stood  by 
while  the  morning  swept  in,  damp,  chill,  but  cleansing. 

"  Sit  down  a  moment  more,  Jerry,"  he  said  finally. 
"  I  want  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  It  is  a  hard  thing,  a 
delicate  thing — harder  and  more  delicate  than  the  thing 
you  trusted  to  me,  without  asking.  There  is  no  other 
white  man  whom  I  would  dare  ask  such  a  favor." 

"  Out  with  it,  son."  Cardinegh  watched  him  wonder- 
ingly.  Routledge  sat  down  and  leaned  forward,  a  fine 
light  in  his  big,  calni  eyes. 

"  I  told  you  I  had  passed  an  interesting  night,  Jerry. 
It  was  more  than  that — a  wonderful  night.  Thoughts 
have  come  to  me  that  never  squirmed  in  mortal  brain 
before.  I  felt  this  vast  moil  of  London- — my  enemy! 
I  felt  it  gathering  about  my  ears  like  the  Tai  Fung  in 
the  China  sea.  It  was  rich,  incomparably  rich,  the  stim 
ulus  of  a  Caesar — this  Herod-hate  of  seven  million  souls ! 
I've  been  thinking  for  hours,  Jerry — and  I  should  have 
been  writing — stuff  for  glory — the  great  book !  Whiskey 
wouldn't  bring  out  such  work,  nor  drugs,  nor  Yogi 
asceticism.  I  have  glimpsed  such  work  in  stars,  in  battle- 
smoke,  in  bivouac  fires,  in  the  calm  and  distances  of  the 
monster  Himalayas ;  perhaps  in  the  eyes  of  women — but 


106  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

glimpses  only,  Jerry!  To-night  it  came  like  a  steady 
stream  of  empyrean  fire.  I  want  months  of  it — months! 
I  would  pay  half  my  life  to  have  London  and  the  army 
hating  me  this  way  until  the  work  is  done.  It's  the 
stuff  that  sings  in  the  veins  of  kings.  Give  it  to  me — 
for  the  book!" 

"  Wake  up !    You  fool — wake  up !  " 

"  Listen,  old  champion,"  Routledge  went  on  passion 
ately  :  "  I  have  spent  this  life  gathering  the  data  of 
experience.  I  have  crossed  the  Sahara  in  the  hue  and 
garb  of  a  camel  driver;  I  have  lain  months  a  yellow 
Mohammedan  in  the  huts  of  Lahore;  as  a  Sannyasi,  I 
have  trudged  up  to  the  roof  of  the  world.  And  the  fight 
ing,  Jerry — Pathan,  Zulu,  and  Burmese;  and  the  revolts 
— Afghan,  Balkan,  Manipur,  African,  Philippine — all 
these  came  back,  vivid,  splendid  last  night — pictures  fit  to 
gild  and  garnish  the  Romance  of  the  Open.  Arid,  Jerry, 
I  have  peered  into  the  mystic  lore  of  India,  the  World's 
Mother — subtly  and  enticingly  to  color  it  all!  I  want 
to  do  this,  Jerry,  the  Book  of  our  Tribe!  I  shall  write 
it  in  blood,  with  pillars  of  fire  leaping  up  for  chapter- 
heads — if  you  will  only  leave  this  flood  of  power  in  my 
veins — the  Hate  of  London !  " 

Cardinegh,  gasping,  clutched  his  hand.  "  One  of  us — 
you  or  I — is  mad " 

"  Mad,  of  course,"  laughed  Routledge.  "  A  man  must 
be  a  little  mad  with  the  inspiration  of  Keats  and  the 
punch  of  Carlyle  banging  together  in  his  brain." 

Hope  lived  wildly  now  in  Cardinegh's  eyes.  "  And 
while  you  are  doing  the  book,"  he  muttered,  "  I  am  to 
live  out  your  tinsel  and  truffles  here,  play  the  grizzled 
warrior — led  about  by  the  child  of  her  mother.  .  .  . 


Routledge  Begs  for  a  Stimulant         107 

Routledge — Routledge,  your  brand  of  stimulus  is  new 
and  raw." 

"I'm  tolerated  to  ordinary  poisons,  Jerry.  A  man 
immersed  in  gentle  azure  can't  get  the  other  pigments 
out  of  his  brain." 

Cardinegh  arose.  "  It's  sweet  heaven  to  me,"  he 
murmured  strangely,  with  quivering  lips.  "It  is  a  rest 
such  as  I  have  never  known.  I  never  was  ready  to  rest 
until  now,  until  to-day — when  I  thought  the  chance  was 
burned  away.  You  want  to  take  this  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Months  of  life — Home,  Noreen !  .  .  .  Damme, 
Routledge — I'm  broken!  It's  like  you,  Routledge — it's 
like  you " 

"  To  me  it's  a  gift  of  the  gods !  Hold  on,  Jerry,  until 
I  bring  back  the  Book — hold  on  and  sit  tight !  " 

Cardinegh  left  the  lodging  and  Bookstalls,  bewildered 
by  his  new  possession  of  days.  The  strain  that  had  kept 
him  afoot  until  the  end ;  that  had  stiffened  his  body  and 
faculties  for  the  end  itself;  carrying  him  step  by  step 
from  the  Khyber  Hills,  through  the  Bhurpal  campaign 
(the  days  in  which  he  had  watched  the  results  of  the 
fire  he  had  started)  ;  the  strain  that  had  roused  his  per 
sonal  craft  to  baffle  and  disarm  those  men  of  uncanny 
keenness  at  Maples,  and  pulled  him  up  for  a  last  rally 
in  London — was  lifted  now,  and  with  it  relaxed  the  sub 
stance  of  his  brain  and  body.  Doubtless,  he  would  have 
preserved  his  acumen  upstanding,  and  an  unsnapped 
nerve,  to  bid  Noreen  farewell  and  make  his  confession  at 
the  War  Office  to-day — but  there  was  no  need ! 

The  old  man  walked  along  mumbling,  forgetting  the 
while  to  hail  a  cab.  The  miracle  of  it  all,  though  it  did 


108  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

not  appeal  to  him,  was  that  he  had  lost  his  ruling,  destroy 
ing  hatred  for  England.  Cheer  Street  and  Noreen — the 
blessedness  of  her  hand  to  help  him;  her  touch  so  like 
her  mother's  upon  his  brow ;  the  eyes  of  her  mother 
across  the  table — months  of  life,  of  rest,  of  Home  and 
Noreen!  .  .  .  These  were  his  thoughts.  There  was 
no  room  for  world-politics,  for  war,  for  passion.  Even 
the  thing  which  Routledge  had  done  hovered  in  the  back 
ground.  It  was  a  piece  of  inhuman  valor,  almost  too  big 
to  hold  fast  to.  Routledge  was  identified  in  his  brain 
now  with  the  stirring  braveries  of  days  long  gone ;  with 
other  sunlights  in  which  men  met  the  shock  of  things 
in  full  manhood ;  it  was  of  another,  of  a  ruddier,  world  to 
old  Jerry's  eyes  to-day.  ...  In  a  remote  way,  he 
felt  that  once  he  might  have  revelled  in  the  hate  of 
London.  Perhaps  it  was  one  of  the  things  peculiar  to 
the  middle  distances  of  manhood — as  far  from  the  com 
prehension  of  the  elders  as  of  the  children.  That  there 
was  an  element  of  sacrifice  in  the  action  of  Routledge 
was  not  entirely  lost  to  Cardinegh,  but  he  put  it  away 
among  the  misty  glories  of  memory — days  when  man 
hood  was  in  its  zenith  of  light  and  power.  It  was  not 
of  the  present;  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  numbness 
and  the  swift,  painless  softening  of  to-day. 

"  Noreen ! "  he  called,  at  the  front  door  in  Cheer 
Street. 

A  servant  told  him  that  Noreen  had  been  away  for 
an  hour.  .  .  .  With  a  startled  look,  the  servant  drew 
a  chair  close  to  the  fire  for  the  old  man,  poured  a  grog 
for  him,  set  his  smoking  things  to  hand,  and  backed 
staring  out  of  the  room.  .  .  .  Hours  afterward, 
Nore?n  found  him  there — the  glass,  the  pipes,  the  daily 


Routledge  Begs  for  a  Stimulant         109 

papers  untouched.  His  smile  was  like  something  which 
the  wind  had  blown  awry.  His  eyes  were  depleted  of 
fire,  of  fury.  Even  the  starry  worship  which  her  pres 
ence  had  reflected  in  them  yesterday  was  dimmed — as 
were  the  mighty  images  of  the  wars  in  his  brain.  .  .  . 
He  roused  at  the  sight  of  her,  started  to  speak  of 
Routledge,  halted,  reflected,  then  drank. 

"  Hold  a  match  to  my  pipe,  child.  It  was  your 
mother's  way.  You've  been  gone  the  long  while,  deere." 

She  obeyed.  The  majesty  of  pain  was  upon  her  face 
as  she  hurried  away.  Locked  in  her  own  room,  long 
afterward,  she  heard  him  humming  quaveringly  an  old 
Irish  folk-song — lost  from  her  brain  a  dozen  years. 


EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

THE  SUPERLATIVE  WOMAN  EMPTIES  HER  HEART  OF 

ITS  TREASURES  FOR  THE  OUTCAST,  AND 

THEY  PART  AT  CHARING  CROSS 

AFTER  taking  the  hand  of  Jerry  Cardinegh  at  the 
stairs,  Routledge  returned  to  his  room,  smiling  a  trifle 
bitterly. 

"  That  was  certainly  a  fragile  underpinning  to  rear 
a  great  lie  upon,"  he  mused.  "  I  couldn't  have  made  old 
Jerry  swallow  that  a  year  ago.  .  .  .  But  there's  good 
humor  in  the  idea — the  book  of  Routledge  energized  by 
the  dynamos  of  British  hate — a  book  of  wars  from  a  man 
who  rather  likes  to  promote  the  ranking  rottenness  of 
war.  .  .  .  But  the  name  of  Cardinegh  cannot  go 
down  just  yet  with  that  of  Colonel  Hammond,  and  the 
Lotus  Expedition ;  with  treachery.  .  .  .  Living  God, 
how  that  sweet  girl  haunts  me!  ...  I  must  put 
her  away — far  back  among  the  cold,  closed  things.  It 
isn't  fair  to  use  her  as  a  trellis  for  thought-vines  like 
mine.  She  is  just  psychic  enough  to  know,  without 
words " 

He  thought  presently  of  what  Rawder  had  told  him 
about  returning  to  India  this  year;  also  of  Noreen's 
amendment — that  he  was  to  go  very  quickly.  How  far 
off  it  had  seemed  yesterday !  .  .  .  Routledge  was 
standing  at  the  window.  Though  his  active  mind  was 
filled  with  sadder,  finer  matters,  a  process  of  unconscious 
cerebration  was  alert  for  the  White  Mustache  in  the 
no 


The  Superlative  Woman  111 

street  below.  This  certain  secret-agent  was  not  in  sight, 
but  there  was  not  a  single  individual  of  the  throng  who 
might  not  be  identified  with  that  silent,  fameless  depart 
ment — the  men  who  had  kept  the  secret  of  Shubar  Khan 
in  spite  of  Colonel  Hammond's  regiment,  which  knew  all. 
.  .  .  London  was  running  with  its  sordid  morning 
business — grinding  by  in  the  gray  morn  and  the  rain. 

"  London,"  he  exclaimed  softly,  marvelling  at  the 
great  thing  which  had  befallen  him,  "  the  keyboard  of  the 
planet!  How  the  Excellent  Operator  hungers  to  turn 
the  full  voltage  on  me  now !  " 

Routledge  was  hard  hit,  and  made  no  pretenses  to 
himself  otherwise.  He  did  not  want  to  go  back  to  India 
to-day.  The  thing  he  had  managed  to  pray  for — the 
Hate  of  London — was  a  crippling  horror.  It  tore  down 
the  inner  life  of  him.  He  felt  already  the  encompassing 
loneliness  of  an  expatriate;  worse,  he  felt  against  him 
the  gigantic  massed  soul  of  the  English.  It  peopled  the 
shadows  of  the  room  and  the  street  and  his  brain,  filling 
him  with  weakness  and  faltering.  It  was  not  that  the 
idea  of  death  hung  to  the  flanks  of  his  being.  He  could 
laugh  at  death  with  a  sterling  principle.  Rather,  it  was 
that  all  that  had  bound  him  to  life  was  dead — work  and 
play  and  light.  He  was  chained  to  a  corpse — the  hate  of 
London.  It  was  an  infectious  corrosion  which  broke 
his  own  spirit,  as  no  physical  dread  had  ever  done;  yet, 
stricken  as  he  was,  he  felt  himself  torn  in  the  counter- 
attraction  of  two  great  passions — between  his  sweetest 
woman  and  his  bravest  man.  ...  A  light  rapping 
at  his  inner  door  startled  him.  It  was  the  Bookstalls 
boy. 

"  Kin  I  come  out  now,  Mister  ?  " 


Routledge  Rides  Alone 

With  a  gasp  of  relief,  Routledge  turned  to  the  door; 
but,  on  the  way,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  two  worn,  fallcn-in 
shoes,  set  so  evenly  before  the  fire. 

"  Bless  you,  lad — just  a  minute,"  he  said. 

He  gathered  up  all  the  change  his  pockets  had  held, 
big  and  little  pieces  of  silver,  and  dropped  them  softly 
into  the  shoes,  now  stiffly  dried, — then  opened  the  door. 
The  small,  draggled  chap  emerged  briskly,  took  in  his 
host  from  head  to  foot  with  a  quick,  approving  look, 
then  glanced  out  of  the  window  to  locate  himself.  It 
was  all  coming  back  to  him  apparently. 

"  I  was  sleepin'  in  yer  street-stairs,"  he  explained,  as 
if  to  get  it  straight  in  his  own  mind.  "  Then  I  didn't 
know  nothink  till  I  'eerd  woices." 

"  What's  your  name,  little  soul  ?  " 

"  Johnny  Brodie." 

"Did  the  voices  bother  you,  Johnny?"  Routledge 
asked. 

"  Naw.  I  was  too  warm.  Nothink  like  woices  never 
bothers  when  you're  warm.  Is  them  your  stairs?  Nobody 
never  come  up  them  stairs  late  afore." 

"  Have  you  slept  there  often,  Johnny  ?  " 

"  Not  wery,"  the  boy  said  nervously. 

He  had  given  Routledge  a  start  for  a  moment.  It 
was  not  past  the  White  Mustache  to  have  used  a  lad  of 
this  size,  but,  once  used,  the  lad  would  never  have  spoken 
of  "  woices."  Besides,  he  had  slept  on  the  stairs  before. 
Johnny  was  looking  about  the  walls  with  covert  appre 
ciation.  Guns,  saddles,  and  soldier-pictures  appealed  to 
him.  They  were  proper  man-things. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  Bookstalls,  and  around 
here?" 


The  Superlative  Woman  113 

"  Allus." 

"  But  haven't  you  any  place  to  sleep?" 

"  Lots."  It  wasn't  said  with  humorous  intent. 
Johnny  Brodie  was  struggling  with  his  shoes. 

Routledge  regarded  him  with  joy. 

"  Lor-gordy,"  muttered  Johnny,  in  an  awed  voice. 
"  Wishermay  die  if  you  ain't  tipped  over  a  bank  in  me 
boots!  .  .  .  Mine?" 

Routledge  nodded. 

"  Well,  I'm  chivvied !  I  'ont  be  safe  nowheres  wit 
all  this." 

"Johnny,  are  all  your  places  to  sleep  like  my  stairs? 
I  mean,  haven't  you  any  regular  place?" 

The  boy  gave  him  a  quick  glance  and  decided  that 
this  was  not  the  time  for  lies. 

"  Lor-gordy — them  stairs  ain't  bad — on'y  wen  it's 
wery  cold.  Naw,  I  ain't  got  nothink  reg'lar." 

"  There's  a  bit  of  a  room  just  your  size,  Johnny,  in  the 
back-hall,"  the  man  said.  "  I'm  going  away  again  to-day, 
and  these  rooms  will  be  locked  up  for  a  long  time,  but 
I'll  be  back,  I  think.  If  I  were  to  fix  it  with  the  good 
landlady  for  you  to  have  that  little  room — and  I'll  give 
you  a  regular  army  blanket  like  the  soldiers  have,  to 
curl  up  in  when  it's  cold,  and  a  little  cot,  and  all  the 
things  you  need — would  you  use  it  every  night  ?  " 

"Lor'!     Say,  Mister,  honest?" 

He  nodded.  "  Run  along  then,  Johnny,  and  get  a 
good  breakfast,  and  I'll  have  it  arranged  when  you  get 
back." 

Routledge  came  to  an  agreement  with  the  woman  of 
the  house ;  carried  from  his  own  rooms  blankets,  soap, 
towels,  pictures,  a  pair  of  military  brushes,  an  unused 
8 


114  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

pocket-knife,  a  package  of  candles,  and  many  other  little 
things  to  the  wee  box  of  a  room  in  the  hall,  taking 
much  pleasure  in  the  outfitting.  .  .  .  He  had 
not  yet  brought  his  own  baggage  from  Charing 
Cross,  and  was  glad  now.  London  had  become  to  him 
like  a  plague  quarantine,  a  smothering  menace.  He 
would  leave  London  to-day,  and  Noreen  Cardinegh,  with 
out  daring  to  see  her  again.  His  every  movement,  he 
realized,  was  watched.  Even  to  take  her  hand  for  a 
moment  would  reflect  evil  upon  her.  The  White  Mus 
tache,  or  one  of  his  kind,  would  observe,  and  a  lasting 
record  would  be  made.  He  paced  the  floor  swiftly, 
murdering  the  biggest  thing  in  his  life. 

.  .  .  He  could  go  to  Rawder.  There  was  healing 
in  that.  Perhaps  the  old  Sannyasi  would  take  him  for 
the  chela  of  his  chela.  He  could  hide  in  England's  India, 
which  only  a  few  of  the  secret  service  knew  so  well  as 
he.  ...  Could  he  put  all  the  wars  and  illusions  of  mat 
ter  away,  drink  of  the  ancient  wisdom,  wander  benefi 
cently  until  the  end,  with  two  holy  men,  in  the  midst 
of  God's  humblest  poor?  Could  he  put  behind  him  all 
that  was  supreme  and  lovely  of  his  life  this  hour,  sink 
it  in  the  graveyard  of  his  past  with  other  dead  desires  ? 

It  was  just  a  rush  of  vague,  vain  thoughts.  Had 
he  been  pure  as  the  boy,  twelve  years  ago,  and  wise  as 
the  man  now,  and  if  he  had  never  known  Noreen 
Cardinegh,  possibly  then  the  old  Sannyasi  might  say, 
"  Be  the  disciple  of  my  disciple ;  and,  free  from  all  the 
illusions  of  the  flesh,  journey  with  us  up  into  the  silence 
of  the  goodly  mountains."  .  .  . 

But  this  life  would  never  know  freedom  from  that 
thrilling,  beautiful  memory.  He  could  sacrifice  a  union 


The  Superlative  Woman  115 

with  Noreen  Cardinegh,  but  never  renounce  her  from 
the  high  place  of  his  heart.  She  was  wedded  to  the 
source  and  centre  of  his  life,  and  no  asceticism  could 
shrive  her  from  him.  He  might  put  half  the  planet's 
curve  between,  but  the  bride  the  world  had  formed  for 
him  would  be  the  eternal  crying  voice  in  the  wilderness ; 
and  until  they  were  mated  in  this  or  another  life,  the 
Wheel  of  Births  and  Deaths  would  never  whirl  him  free 
from  love,  the  loftiest  of  all  illusions.  Though  he  sat  in 
a  temple  upon  the  roof  of  the  world,  holding  his  thoughts 
among  the  stars  until  the  kusa-grass  beneath  him  was 
blown  like  dust  away,  and  his  body  petrified  upon  the 
naked  rock,  the  last  breath  from  the  ruin  would  stir  his 
lips  to  the  name  of  the  world's  bright  gift  to  him — 
Noreen. 

Johnny  Brodie  returned.  Routledge  took  him  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  into  the  midst  of  his  possessions. 
.  .  .  It  was  quite  a  happy  time,  with  the  old  landlady 
looking  on,  and  a  mysterious  fund  in  her  pocket  for 
Johnny  stockings,  and  Brodie  trousers  and  even  dinners, 
when  old  Bookstalls  was  remiss  in  her  duty.  Finally,  at 
the  last  moment,  Routledge  dropped  his  hand  upon  the 
boy's  shoulder.  The  face  was  turned  up  clear,  the  eyes 
unblinking.  The  man  was  no  longer  afraid. 

"  Johnny,"  he  said,  "  the  best  fellows  in  this  world 
are  those  who  are  strong  enough  to  hold  their  tongues 
at  the  right  time.  Nobody  must  know  about  this  little 
room — nobody.  To  you,  I'm  just  a  decent  stranger  who 
has  gone  away.  If  anybody  asks  who  or  where  or  how 
or  why  about  me — you  don't  know.  This  is  all  yours. 
Sleep  tight,  and  say  nothing.  If  you  need  anything  that 
you  can't  get  yourself,  go  to  the  landlady.  Be  clean  about 


116  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

what  you  do  everywhere — I  don't  mean  in  the  room, 
Johnny,  but  everywhere,  in  the  street,  too.  Not  clean 
about  your  hands  and  face — that's  good — but  mostly 
about  what  you  think.  I  may  come  back  some  time,  and 
I  may  not,  but  you'll  be  fixed  here  as  long  as  you  need. 
Think  of  it,  Johnny  Brodie — remember  this  well :  always 
if  something  hits  you  from  inside  that  a  thing  isn't  good 
to  do,  don't  hurry  about  doing  it.  Think  it  over.  If  you 
wouldn't  do  it  when  the  person  you  like  best  in  the  world 
is  watching,  it  isn't  a  good  thing  to  do  alone." 

Routledge  locked  his  lodgings.  With  the  boy  attached 
to  one  hand  and  his  bag  in  the  other,  he  went  down  into 
the  street,  and  just  at  that  moment  a  carriage  opened  at 
the  curb,  and  Noreen  Cardinegh  stepped  out.  Routledge 
took  the  outstretched  hand,  but  there  was  a  warm  flood 
of  pain  widening  within  him,  as  blood  from  an  opened 
wound.  .  .  . 

The  rain-coat  hung  about  her  like  a  delicate  harmony, 
its  hood  covering  her  hair;  and  its  high-rolling  collar, 
bound  with  scarlet,  thin  as  a  thread  but  vivid  as  an 
oriflamme,  concealed  her  throat.  That  lustrous,  perfect 
oval  face  in  the  rain.  It  was  luminous  from  within  like 
a  pearl,  and  had  its  scarlet-edging  in  the  curving,  exqui 
site  lips,  strange  with  inner  vividness.  Never  had  she 
been  so  wondrous  to  him  as  he  felt  the  superb  zest  of  life 
beneath  the  pearl-gray  glove  that  moment  in  grimy 
Bookstalls.  A  conception  of  womanhood  that  widened 
the  limitations  of  any  man  !  .  .  .  He  lifted  his  glance 
from  the  pavement,  where  it  had  been  held  for  an  instant 
by  the  glittering  point  of  her  boot,  and  found  the  great 
eyes  upon  him — pools  of  splendor  which  held  his  temple, 
white  as  truth,  golden  sunlight  on  its  dome;  and,  far 


The  Superlative  Woman  117 

within,  a  dim,  mystic  sanctuary  where  Mother  Earth 
had  built  a  shrine  for  him. 

"Thank  God  you  have  not  gone,  Routledge-san ! " 
she  said  in  a  low  way.  "  Tell  me— ah,  but  I  know— you 
would  have  gone  without  a  word  to  me.  .  .  .  You 
think  it  is  right?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  do  you  punish  me  this  way,  Routledge-san  ? 
...  Do  you  think  I  mind  what  London  cares  or 
thinks?  Do  you  think  London  could  force  me  to  believe 
ill  of  you?  ...  I  must  talk  with  you!  May  we 
not  go  up  into  your  rooms,  out  of  the  crowd  and  the 
rain?  The  little  boy  may  come." 

There  was  not  a  window  commanding  the  street 
which  might  not  have  held  the  White  Mustache  that 
moment ;  not  a  single  passer-by  who  might  not  have  been 
one  of  his  kind. 

"  I  have  turned  in  my — that  is,  I  have  given  up  my 
room,"  he  faltered. 

"  I  must  talk  with  you.  Come  into  my  carriage. 
That  will  be  the  better  way.  The  little  boy " 

She  caught  the  look  of  hostility  in  the  street-waif's 
eyes.  She  was  taking  the  man  away.  There  was  another 
look,  the  meaning  of  which  she  did  not  miss.  Routledge 
bent  down  to  him. 

"Good-by,  little  soul,"  he  said.  "I'll  find  you  in 
some  doorway  again  some  time — maybe  in  the  doorway 
to  fame.  Be  a  good  little  fellow  always.  Don't  get 
tired  of  being  clean,  and  some  time  you'll  be  mighty 
glad." 

The  boy  watched  the  carriage   move   slowly   away 


118  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

among  the  truckage — until  a  stranger  put  a  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 

For  many  seconds  neither  spoke ;  then  it  was  Noreen. 

"  What  is  this  big  thing  you  are  doing,  Routledge- 
san?" 

"  I  cannot  tell — even  you." 

"  Yes,  but  you  need  not  have  hurt  me  so.  You  were 
going  away  without  a  word  to  me — and  I  am  so  proud  to 
have  been  for  you — against  the  others." 

"  Noreen,  you  must  believe  that  it  is  not  good  for 
you  to  be  seen  with  me  now.  Every  movement  I  make 
is  known ;  every  one  in  the  slightest  communication  with 
me  is  under  suspicion.  Your  loyalty — I  cannot  even 
speak  of  steadily,  it  is  so  big  and  dear — and  because  it  is 
so,  I  shudder  to  drag  you  into  these  forlorn  fortunes  of 
mine.  It  is  in  the  power  of  these  people  to  make  you 
very  miserable  while  I  am  gone — and  that  is  anguish  to 
me,  nothing  less." 

"  You  think  of  me — think  of  me  always,  and  a  little 
social  matter  which  concerns  me !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
care  nothing  for  it — oh,  please  believe  that.  Last  night 
you  left  the  Armory,  not  knowing  what  had  befallen 
you.  This  morning  you  know  all.  Could  you  have  done 
unconsciously — anythingto  turn  the  Hate  of  London  upon 
you?  .  .  .  It  is  not  in  reason.  I  believe  it  is  just 
and  right  for  me  to  know  what  my  father  told  you  in 
the  night — but  you  will  not  tell  me " 

"  This  thing  is  mine  to  carry — to  carry  alone.  Last 
night  I  laughed.  To-day  I  find  that  it  is  not  a  thing  to 
laugh  at.  The  Hate  of  London," — Routledge  carved  out 
the  words  slowly  and  clearly,  in  spite  of  the  resistance 


The  Superlative  Woman  119 

of  his  whole  humanity — "  I  have  brought  upon  myself." 

"  Not  with  dishonor !  " 

He  was  silent. 

"  Not  with  dishonor,  Routledge-san !  "  she  whispered 
triumphantly,  peering  into  his  eyes.  "You  could  not 
convey  a  falsehood  to  me,  not  even  to  shield  another — 
not  even  if  you  uttered  the  words  of  the  lie.  Your  eyes 
would  tell  the  truth  to  me ! " 

Rain  splashed  upon  the  windows  of  the  carriage.  The 
face  so  near  him  in  the  gloom  was  like  the  vision  of  a 
master-artist,  too  perfect  for  the  poor  human  hand.  The 
pressure  of  her  shoulder ;  the  fragrance  of  her  presence ; 
the  voice  of  her  which  stirred  within  him  the  primal 
mystery  of  other  lives — against  such  he  fought  for 
strength.  ...  It  was  not  passion  in  the  red  meaning 
of  the  word,  but  a  love  that  made  the  railway  gates  at 
Charing  Cross  his  portals  to  living  death. 

"  Think  what  you  will,"  he  commanded,  after  a 
moment.  "  God  knows,  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  me 
devilish,  but  you  must  be  silent  to  others  about  me. 
.  .  .  You  will  make  me  suffer  more  than  you  know — 
if  you  stand  against  London  for  me — when  I  am  gone. 
It  was  a  magnificent  life  labor  of  your  father's  which 
purchased  for  you — your  place  in  London.  .  .  . 
Noreen  Cardinegh,  I  shall  leave  the  carriage  as  we 
approach  Charing  Cross;  and  in  the  name  of  God,  do 
nothing  to  further  attract  my  infamy  to  your  name ! " 

"  We  will  say  no  more  about  that,"  she  answered 
quietly.  "  I  shall  avoid  every  man  and  woman  in  London 
who  would  dare  to  speak  of  infamy  and  Routledge-san  in 
one  breath,  but  if  they  seek  me  out !  .  .  .  But  I  have 
other  things  to  say.  You  must  go,  and  I  must  stay. 


120  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Before  you  go,  I  shall  tell  you  what  you  have  done  for 
Noreen  Cardinegh,  and  what  you  mean  to  her — to  me. 
.  .  .  You  are  my  bravest  man,  Routledge-san.  .  .  . 
When  I  was  but  a  little  girl  my  father  told  me  of  you.  I 
have  heard  all  the  men  speak  of  you.  Yours  would  have 
been  the  greatest  of  all  welcomes  at  the  Armory  last  night 
— save  for  this  terrible  mystery.  I  saw  the  way  that  little 
boy  looked  up  at  you  this  morning.  I  know  what  he 
thought — for  the  same  thoughts  were  mine  in  Japan  when 
I  was  but  a  little  older.  And  your  work  has  been  deep 
and  important  to  me — a  personal,  illuminating  service. 
It  has  made  me  see  the  vanity  of  piled  stones,  the  futility 
of  possessions.  In  looking-  the  way  you  pointed — I  have 
found  that  real  life  is  not  food  and  metal " 

The  tension  was  eased  for  a  moment.  Routledge 
laughed  softly.  "  Why,  I  am  but  a  dealer  in  war-stuff — 
the  most  godless  of  all  matter,  Noreen,"  he  said. 

"  A  dealer  in  war-stuff — to  make  the  world  see  the 
horrible  farce  of  it!  Oh,  don't  think  I  have  failed  to 
see  the  import  of  your  work,  or  failed  to  contrast  it  with 
the  ponderous  egotism  of  certain  other  English  war- 
correspondents,  who  build  their  careers  upon  wars — 
with  their  dull  studies  of  tactics,  their  heavy  handling  of 
strategies — so  comically  like  a  child  panting  with  heavy 
stones.  Do  you  think  that  I  did  not  see,  in  spite  of  your 
brilliant  description  how  the  Japanese  caught  and  held 
the  van  at  Tientsin,  the  real  picture  of  your  whole  story — 
that  of  a  cruel,  ruthless  nation  of  insensate  boys — running 
to  jaw  instead  of  mind  ?  " 

Routledge  was  startled  by  the  expression  of  a  thought 
which  the  Review  would  not  intentionally  have  published, 
less  obviously  than  in  a  charade.  There  was  nothing  of 


The  Superlative  Woman  121 

vanity  in  the  matter,  but  her  words  became  dear  to 
memory — rifts  in  that  dreadful  parting  hour.  Certainly 
there  was  deep  gladness  for  the  woman  in  the  telling: 

"  They  speak  of  you  losing  yourself  in  India  for 
months  and  months.  Do  you  think  I  have  missed  all 
that  you  have  found,  Routledge-san,  when  you  were  lost 
to  men  ?  I  know  something  of  what  India  means  to  you, 
her  submission  and  her  famines,  and  the  hundreds  of 
little  Warren  Hastings'  trooping  over  her,  from  Lahore 
to  Pondicherry,  brooding  of  pounds  and  power!  Why, 
to  me  you  have  placed  it  clear  as  Carlyle  with  his  rever 
berating  thunders  of  fifty  years  ago.  Here  is  England, 
sitting  dull-eyed  among  her  flesh-pots,  and  yonder  is 
India — drained.  You  did  not  say  it  in  direct  words, 
Routledge-san,  but  you  made  me  see  the  provinces  of 
India  scattered  about  like  the  shells  of  insects  in  a  spider's 
web,  and  this  London — the  darkened  lair  of  the  watching 
eyes.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  have  seen  all  that  you  mean, 
Routledge-san,  but  more — the  bigger,  finer  things  than 
national  relations.  .  .  .  You  have  gone  into  the 
silent  places  to  meditate,  and  to  me  you  have  brought 
back  the  images  of  the  silence — big,  chaste  things,  like 
our  bravest  man.  There  is  good  and  there  is  hope  in  the 
world  which  holds  such  men  and  such  things — and 
because  of  you  I  have  kept  my  optimism.  I  seem  to  have 
a  perfect  torrent  of  talk,  but  I  have  been  so  much  alone 
to  think — and  you  are  going  away.  I  want  you  to  know 
that  you  and  the  things  you  have  brought  to  me  are 
bigger — than  London  and  the  world.  .  .  .  When  I 
speak  with  you — I  seem  to  have  known  you  always. 
.  .  .  And  then  you  are  going  away — with  a  burden  in 
your  heart,  which  no  act  of  yours  put  there.  .  .  . 


122  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Why  is  it,  Routledge-san,  that  one's  bravest  man  must 
suffer  such  deluges  of  evil  ?  " 

"  Noreen,  you  are  resistless,"  he  murmured.  "  It  is 
life " 

She  pressed  her  face  to  the  pane,  tried  thoughtlessly 
to  brush  away  the  blurring  rain  on  the  outside.  With  a 
quick,  savage  return  of  pain,  she  realized  how  near  they 
were  to  Charing  Cross. 

"  I  haven't  told  you — all  that  I  mean  yet,  Routledge- 
san  !  "  she  whispered  feverishly.  "  You  met  some  adver 
sary  last  night  and  conquered.  You  are  weak  and  hurt — 
but  you  have  won.  ...  I  cannot  quite  understand, 
but  the  sentence  ringing  in  my  brain  is  this :  '  The  young 
grain  is  springing  on  the  field  of  Waterloo/  ...  I 
met  my  adversary  in  the  night — and  I  have  won,  too. 
When  I  think  of  you — it  rushes  over  me  like  a  tidal  wave 
— to  fight  London  and  the  world  for  you ;  but  I  have  my 
work  here.  It  must  be  done  cleanly  and  without  a  cry. 
My  father  needs  me.  The  best  is  gone  from  him  already 
— and  I  must  treasure  the  rest ;  but  it  will  not  be  always. 
.  .  .  And  when  my  work  is  finished  in  Cheer  Street, 
Routledge-san,  I  shall  cross  the  world  to  find  you ! " 

He  felt  it  hard  to  breathe  in  the  desolation.  A  desire 
full-formed  and  upstanding,  in  spite  of  the  mockery  of  it, 
vanquished  him  for  a  moment.  It  was  to  keep  on  with 
her — riding,  journeying,  sailing — with  her,  through  the 
gates  of  Charing  Cross,  to  Southampton,  New  York,  San 
Francisco,  Yokohama,  Nagasaki,  Shanghai,  Hong  Kong, 
Singapore,  Calcutta — up  the  Ganges  to  its  source  in  the 
Hills,  and  there  among  the  mystic  people  of  his  heart,  to 
dwell  with  her,  adoring  in  the  stillness  of  starlight,  in  the 
morning  glow. 


The  Superlative  Woman  123 

"  I  shall  be  nameless,  and  a  wanderer " 


"  And  my  bravest  man !  .  .  .  This  is  not  un 
womanly,  Routledge-san.  This  is  farewell.  The  girl  is 
torn  from  me — and  the  woman  speaks  her  heart.  .  .  . 
No  one  but  you  could  understand.  Always  I  have  been 
strange.  ...  I  cannot  leave  it  unsaid.  I  shall  come 
to  find  you  when  I  am  free!  It  is  not — not  that  I  shall 
ask  you  to  marry  me.  It  is  not  that — but  to  be  with 
you!  I  think — I  think  that  you  are  so  noble  that  my 
being  a  woman  would  not  complicate.  .  .  .  Rout 
ledge-san  !  It  is  Charing  Cross !  " 

Swiftly  she  drew  tiny  scissors  from  a  pocket-case, 
snipped  from  her  temple  a  lock  of  hair,  tied  it  with  a 
strand  of  its  own,  and  thrust  it  into  his  hand. 

It  was  light,  living,  warm  like  a  bird  in  his  palm. 
Her  last  words  intoned  through  his  dreams  for  many 
days: 

"  Remember,  I  am  Noreen  Cardinegh — who  believes 
in  you  always — before  all  men — for  all  time.  And  I, 
too,  must  be  brave  and  enduring  until  my  work  is  done — 
and  I  may  cross  the  world  to  find  you !  " 

.  .  .  He  was  standing  at  the  curb  before  the  great 
station.  The  carriage  had  turned  away.  There  came  to 
him  out  of  the  throng — a  cry,  not  to  his  ears,  but  straight 
to  his  breast,  a  cry  wild  with  desolation,  which  his  heart 
answered.  .  .  . 

He  purchased  his  ticket,  and  rechecked  his  baggage, 
and  then  passed  through  the  gates  to  the  gray,  smoky 
yards.  From  the  deck  of  his  steamer  at  Southampton 
that  night  he  caught  a  last  glimpse  of  the  White  Mus 
tache,  a  satisfied  smile  on  the  keen,  hard  face.  In  a  cold, 
distant  fashion,  Routledge  marvelled  that  he  was  allowed 
to  leave  England  alive. 


NINTH  CHAPTER 

MR.  JASPER  IS  INFORMED  THAT  MOTHER  INDIA 

CAUSED  NAPOLEON'S  DEFEAT,  AND  THAT 

FAMINES  ARE  NOT  WITHOUT  VIRTUE 

"  J.  J.  JASPER,  Syracuse,  New  York,"  was  being 
inscribed  in  the  hotel  registers  along  the  travelled-lines 
around  the  world.  Mr.  Jasper  was  making  no  haste. 
"  I  have  been  rushed  all  my  life  until  now,"  he  explained. 
He  was  a  sincere,  hard-thinking,  little  man  of  fifty,  who 
had  manufactured  road-carts  for  thirty  years,  and  had 
succeeded  remarkably  well  in  emancipating  himself  from 
business — a  high-ranged  achievement  for  only  the  few 
Americans. 

Mr.  Jasper  was  interested  in  India  long  before  he 
touched  Bombay,  going  east.  This  happened  because  his 
sister  was  a  member  of  a  theosophical  class  back  in 
Syracuse.  He  had  heard  of  "  dreamy  India  "  for  many 
years,  of  Madras  and  the  Ganges,  of  yogis  and  astral 
bodies,  of  esoteric  sections  and  H.P.B.,  of  Sinnett,  Olcott, 
Besant,  masters,  famines,  of  karma,  devachan,  prayalo, 
of  metempsychosis  and  the  Great  White  Lodge  of  the 
Himalayas.  ..."  Go  to  Madras,  James,"  his  sister 
had  told  him.  "  By  all  means,  go  to  Madras.  Our 
headquarters  and  our  libraries  of  occult  literature  are 
there.  It  may  be  that  our  president  and  founder,  Mr. 
Olcott,  will  meet  you  personally,  or  Annie  Besant,  the 
most  noted  woman  in  the  world.  Don't  call  it  '  Besan// 
like  the  author,  but  as  if  it  were  spelled  '  Bessant.'  There 
are  reasons,  James,  esoteric  reasons." 
124 


Mr.  Jasper  is  Informed  125 

And  so  Mr.  Jasper  went  to  Madras.  He  took  the 
hand  of  white-bearded  Olcott,*  a  rounded  man,  who  had 
not  lost  interest  in  the  New  York  bar  or  press  simply 
because  he  was  president  and  founder  of  a  great  body  of 
generally  refined  men  and  women  who  have  the  temerity 
to  believe  that  buying  cheap  and  selling  dear  is  not  the 
supreme  glory  of  man.  Also  Mr.  Jasper  pronounced 
it  "  Bessant,"  for  esoteric  reasons,  but  he  did  not  meet 
the  most  noted  woman  in  the  world,  since  she  had  taken 
her  annual  flight  to  London. 

In  the  midst  of  all  his  seeing  and  smelling  and  brood 
ing  among  the  coast  cities  of  India,  Mr.  Jasper  was 
impressed  with  the  dire  poverty  of  certain  districts.  The 
heart  of  the  man  was  wrung,  and  his  brain  filled  with  the 
Everlasting  Why.  At  the  house  of  a  missionary  in 
Nizagari,  he  ascertained  certain  facts.  The  Hindus  of 
the  town  were  hungry.  They  came  to  the  missionary, 
men  and  wives  and  babes,  and  begged  most  pitifully  for 
food. 

"  If  we  could  only  eat  food  once  in  two  days,  we 
would  ask  no  more !  "  they  cried. 

"  God,  this  is  famine — the  famine  of  the  Bible!"  ex 
claimed  the  American. 

"  Ah,  no,"  replied  the  missionary.  "  You  must  allow 
me  to  correct  you.  There  is  no  recognized  famine  in 
Nizagari." 

"  If  this  is  not  famine — what  does  the  word  mean?  " 

"  Go  to  the  central  provinces,"  the  missionary  said 
wearily.  "  Famine  is  declared  there." 

Mr.  Jasper  thought  long  that  night.     He   recalled 

*  This  was  in  1902.     Mr.  Olcott  has  since  died. 


126  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

being  left  once,  when  he  was  a  much  younger  man,  in 
New  York  city  over  night  without  money.  The  metropo 
lis  was  a  city  of  strangers  to  him  then,  but,  as  now,  a 
city  of  pure  and  plenteous  water,  free  lunches,  and 
benches  to  sit  upon.  Moreover,  it  was  a  summer  night; 
and  yet  before  mail-time  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Jasper  felt 
that  his  cosmos  had  dropped  into  chaos.  .  .  .  "I 
will  arise  and  go  to  the  Central  Provinces,"  he  declared. 
After  many  weary  days,  he  alighted  from  his  train  in  the 
hot,  fetid  city  of  Nagpur. 

"  Famine,"  they  told  him — he  thought  he  saw  famine 
in  the  eyes  of  the  English — "  yes,  there  is  famine  north 
ward,  but  the  government  has  taken  it  in  hand.  You  see, 
when  a  famine  is  officially  declared  it  doesn't  last 
long.  ..." 

Mr.  Jasper  hurried  northward,  lest  it  be  over  before 
he  reached  there.  He  wanted  to  see  the  conditions  which 
would  cause  the  Anglo-Indians  officially  to  recognize 
famine.  Finally,  it  was  borne  upon  him  that  he  must 
leave  the  railway  to  discover  the  reality,  and  he  made  his 
way  eastward,  for  a  long  day's  journey,  by  bullock-cart 
and  sedan-chair,  across  a  burning,  forsaken  land  to  the 
town  of  Rydamphur — too  little  and  too  far  for  the 
English  yet  to  have  heard  its  cry.  Least  of  villages, 
Rydamphur,  a  still,  sterile,  Christless  place,  sprawled 
upon  a  saffron  desert.  He  paid  his  coolies  at  the  edge 
of  the  village,  and  they  pointed  out  the  Rest  House  among 
the  huts. 

The  place  was  dead  as  a  dream  creation.  There  was 
something  febrile,  unnatural  in  the  late  afternoon  sun 
light.  The  houses  looked  withered  and  ready  to  fall  in 
that  dead-gold  light.  He  passed  a  darkened  doorway 


Mr.  Jasper  is  Informed  127 

and  was  stabbed  by  the  spur  of  horrid  understanding — a 
blast  of  unutterable  fetor.  ...  He  ran  for  a  step  or 
two,  horrified  as  if  he  had  trodden  upon  the  dead  in  the 
dark.  His  brain  was  filled  with  muttering :  "  This  is 
famine !  This  is  famine !  "  .  .  .  Mr.  Jasper  turned 
shortly,  and  saw  emerging  from  the  darkened  hut — a 
white  man  in  native  dress.  It  was  a  face  incapable  of 
tan,  and  fixed  with  a  sorrow  too  deep  for  tears — a  wild, 
tragic  sorrow,  vivid  in  the  fever-wide  eyes.  .  .  . 

It  was  all  nightmarish  and  inchoate.  Thus  he  entered 
the  oven  of  bricks  called  the  Rest  House,  and  bathed, 
changed,  and  gasped,  while  the  snoring  punkahs  whipped 
him  with  hot,  sterilizing  breaths.  .  .  .  Dinner  that 
evening  at  eight.  Mr.  Jasper  sat  down  to  a  table  with 
a  gaunt,  embrowned  stranger  in  white  linen — a  wasted 
giant,  with  a  head  and  figure  of  singular  command ;  eyes 
that  were  weary  and  restless,  but  very  wise  and  very 
kind.  So  sun-darkened  was  the  face  that  Mr.  Jasper 
thought  at  first  his  companion  must  be  a  native  of  high 
caste;  especially  since  he  ate  no  meat  and  sparingly  of 
the  rest.  The  dinner  was  meagre,  but  a  feast  compared  to 
what  was  expected  in  the  nucleus  of  a  famine  district. 
"  I  didn't  suppose  such  a  variety  of  food  could  be  pro 
cured  here,"  Mr.  Jasper  observed. 

"  There  has  been  plenty  of  food  to  be  had  for  money, 
until  the  last  day  or  two,"  the  stranger  replied. 

"  And  the  natives  have  no  money  ?  " 

Mr.  Jasper  realized  that  the  question  was  inane,  but 
his  eagerness  was  great  to  draw  the  man  before  him  into 
conversation.  There  was  a  distinguished  look  in  the 
man's  face  which  promised  much.  He  proved  by  no 
means  disinclined  to  talk;  indeed,  seemed  urged  by  a 


Routledge  Rides  Alone 

strange  zeal  for  conversation  that  night,  as  one  who  has 
been  in  prison,  or  somewhere  long  and  far  from  his  kind. 

"  I  came  here,  not  out  of  vulgar  curiosity,  but  striv 
ing  to  understand,"  Mr.  Jasper  said. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  our  great  brown  Mother 
India?" 

"  She  does  not  feed  her  children." 

"  That  is  true.  Mother  India  must  come  back  to  the 
table  of  the  world  and  learn  how  things  are  served  by 
the  younger  peoples — the  sharper-eyed,  quicker-handed 
peoples.  You  have  heard  the  story,  no  doubt,  that  India 
had  once  great  and  profitable  industries.  Her  commercial 
systems  were  founded  upon  mutual  service,  not  upon  com 
petition.  Then  the  East  India  company  and  England 
came.  '  Mother  India,  you  are  quite  absurd/  said  Eng 
land,  and  she  took  away  all  the  mutual  benefit  industries, 
and  reorganized  them  again  in  the  true  English  way. 
*  We  shall  show  you  how,  Mother  India/  she  said.  India 
must  have  been  inept,  because  England  never  gave  them 
back." 

Both  men  were  smiling.  "  Then  you  think  India 
famines  are  the  result  of  British  rule  ?  "  the  man  from 
Syracuse  observed. 

"  If  I  told  you  that,  it  would  be  right  for  me  to  explain 
why  I  think  so.  That  would  take  some  time,  and  the 
night  is  very  hot." 

"  I  came  to  Rydamphur  to  learn  the  truth.  Some 
how,  I  believe  I  shall  succeed — if  you  will  tell  me  what 
you  can,  sir."  The  stranger's  eyes  brightened. 

"  Discussing  the  matter  seriously,  it  is  well  to  begin 
with  Macaulay's  sentence,  '  The  heaviest  of  all  yokes  is 
the  yoke  of  a  stranger.' " 


Mr.  Jasper  is  Informed  129 

"  You  are  not  an  Englishman  ?  "  Mr.  Jasper  asked. 

"  No,  but  does  that  signify  ?  Many  English  have 
spoken  the  truth.  Edmund  Burke  said,  '  The  Tartar 
invasion  was  mischievous,  but  it  is  our  protection  which 
destroys  India.'  The  English  historian,  Montgomery 
Martin,  wrote  that  so  constant  a  drain  as  England's  upon 
India  would  impoverish  England  herself  if  she  were  sub 
jected  to  it.  And  here  reflect  that  the  wage  of  the  laborer, 
when  he  gets  work,  averages  but  twopence  a  day. 
J.  I.  Sunderland  observes,  '  The  British  have  given  India 
railways,  jute-mills,  tea  plantations,  and  many  things 
else.  .  .  .  The  profits  go  to  the  British.'  Mr. 
Sunderland,  no  doubt,  remarks  elsewhere  about  the  opium 
industry.  Herbert  Spencer  declares  that  it  was  an  arro 
gant  assumption  upon  the  part  of  the  British  to  accept  as 
a  fact  that  India  exists  for  England.  He  also  charac 
terizes  England's  relations  to  India  as  a  '  cunning  despot 
ism  which  uses  native  soldiers  to  maintain  and  extend 
native  subjection.' ' 

"  But  we  in  America,"  said  Mr.  Jasper — "  I  refer  to 
those  who  have  not  looked  deeply  into  the  question — 
even  our  president,  Mr.  Roosevelt — have  regarded  Eng 
lish  rule  in  India  as  a  vast  and  beneficent  system." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  responded  the  stranger,  with  a  queet 
smile ;  "  as  you  say,  those  who  have  not  looked  deeply 
into  the  question,  regard  it  so.  There  was  another 
American  president,  Mr.  Lincoln,  who  declared  that  no 
man  is  good  enough  to  govern  another  man.  .  .  . 
But  there  are  errors  of  judgment  all  around  the  world, 
and  errors  of  ignorance  which  make  for  cruelty.  Eng 
lish  agents  will  come  here  to  poor  little  Rydamphur 
presently  with  rice  and  millet,  and  when  the  rains  start; 
9 


ISO  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

the  periodic  famine  officially  win  be  declared  over  for 
another  year,  and  the  people  of  this  district  will  arise  to 
the  normal  conditioa  of  forty  millions  of  India — that 
of  slow  starvation." 

-  Bat  why  don't  the  Hindus  emigrate?  " 

**  Mother  India  cannot  afford  to  give  her  children 
passage  money,"  the  strauga  declared  quickly.  "She 
is  sending  a  few,  die  pith  and  promise  of  her  young  men, 
to  America  and  elsewhere  to  learn  from  the  younger 
peoples  how  to  take  care  of  herself  in  commercial  matters, 
in  the  hope  of  icviving  her  industries  in  centuries  to 
cone.  Bat  the  ordinary  low-castes,  the  fuel  of  the  famines, 
would  have  to  starve  a  little  extra  in  good  times  to  save 
from  their  earnings  the  price  to  cross  one  of  our  North 
River  ferries.  They  would  die  long  before  they  hoarded 
the  fare  from  Brooklyn  Bridge  to  Coney  Island." 

Mr.  Jasper's  eyes  kindled  at  the  references.  "  But 
why  do  the  Hindus  not  fight?  "  he  asked. 

"India  has  no  arms." 

"  Bat  even  oar  tittle  South  and  Central  American 
States  get  arms  and  fight  right  merrily  with  them." 

"India  is  poorer  than  the  tittle  South  and  Central 
American  Slates — so  poor  that  it  requires  a  white  man 
years  to  conceive  the  meaning  of  her  poverty."  The 
qpralnrr  leaned  forward  and  added  in  a  slow,  bitter  way : 
"Watty  motions  in  India  are  hungry  to-night;  forty 
nnlfions  are  never  otherwise  than  huiigiy — they  pass 
from  the  womb  to  the  burning-ghats,  never  having  known 
a  moment  of  rrplrliun;  yet  Fnghad  drains  India  of  one 
hundred  miltion  dollars  a  year.  Listen;  in  the  last 
twenty-five  years  of  the  innftftfnlli  century  ten  millions 
in  India  died  of  fiii«nr  In  the  same  period 


Mr.  Jasper  is  Informed  131 

vampirized  this  land  of  the  hungry  of  twenty-five  hundred 
millions  of  dollars.  This  is  one  of  the  tragic  facts  of  the 
workL 

"  Here's  another :  in  the  nineteenth  century  England 
compelled  India  to  maintain  five  times  as  manv  troops  aft 
were  needed  for  her  own  defense  or  her  own  subjection — 
in  other  words,  forced  India  to  furnish  troops  for  British 
conquests  outside  of  India!  .  .  .  Would  you  mind. 
sir,  if  I  uttered  a  sentence  that  has  never  been  uttered 
before?" 

Mr.  Jasper  laughed  a  little  nervously. 

"  It  was  India  that  whipped  Napoleon." 

"There's  some  shock  to  that  statement.  Tefl  me 
how." 

"  In  the  fifty-seven  years  between  the  batdcs  of 
Plassey  and  Waterloo.  England  looted  a  billion  in  pounds 
sterling — five  thousand  million  dollars — from  the  con 
quered  Indian  people.  This  was  the  price  India  paid  for 
bondage,  for  ruined  industries  and  periodic  famines. 
This  was  the  period  of  England's  military  expansion. 
The  army  that  crushed  Napoleon  was  fed  and  Hotfcei 
and  armed  by  Indian  tributes," 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment,  and  the  stranger  added 
with  an  impressiveness  that  Mr.  Jasper  never  forgot: 
"  It  is  rather  stirring  to  remember  that  this  old  India 
was  highly  civilized,  in  a  rich  meaning  of  the  expression, 
ripe  in  arts,  letters,  and  incomparable  philosophies,  when 
the  ancestors  of  the  English  were  painted  savages.  India 
was  the  leader  of  Asiatic  civilization,  and  perhaps  die 
richest  country  hi  the  world,  when  England  broke  in  upon 
her.  What  is  old  India  now  ?  Hearken  to  the  soak  pass 
ing  in  little  Rydamphur  to-night !  ** 


132  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  But  what,  in  God's  name,  can  be  done?  "  Mr.  Jasper 
demanded. 

"  When  England  begins  to  treat  India  as  she  would 
be  forced  to  treat  a  colony  of  white  men,  aggressive  as 
Americans,  for  instance,  India  will  begin  to  discover  her 
gray  of  morning." 

"  But  England  won't  do  that  until  India  becomes  a 
militant  people." 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  not.  England  still  has  much  of  her 
imperialistic  arrogance.  ...  A  little  while  ago,  one 
of  the  ablest  of  the  native  editors,  an  old  man,  was  ban 
ished  from  the  country  for  six  years  because  he  published 
an  article  in  his  paper  pointing  out  his  country's  mis 
fortunes.  This  aged  editor  was  a  Murahti,  and  during 
his  trial  called  for  a  Murahti  jury.  On  the  contrary,  the 
jury  was  made  of  English  and  Parsees.  The  prisoner 
did  not  know  a  word  of  the  court's  proceedings  until  an 
interpreter  informed  him  of  his  banishment.  Another 
young  Hindu  nobleman  was  recently  banished  for  life 
because  he  took  part  in  public  speeches.  The  English 
judge  who  sentenced  this  young  man  declared  that  there 
was  no  reason  for  one  Hindu  addressing  a  gathering  of 
Hindus,  since  the  latter  had  no  votes.  I  call  that  a  rather 
interesting  political  homily." 

"  It  is  chief  among  outrages,"  declared  Mr.  Jasper. 

The  other  regarded  him  intently  a  moment,  as  if 
deliberating  whether  it  were  wise  to  go  a  bit  farther.  He 
studied  the  deep  and  honest  interest  in  the  perspiring 
face,  and  caught  up  the  question  afresh : 

"  India,  the  best  of  India,  has  lost  from  her  blood  that 
which  makes  for  war  and  commercial  conquests.  She 
is  the  longest  suffering  of  all  the  nations.  She  asks  only 


Mr.  Jasper  is  Informed  133 

for  peace.  Those  great  playthings  of  the  more  material 
powers — navies,  soldiery,  colonies,  armament — she  cannot 
appreciate,  cannot  understand.  India  is  not  cowardly. 
You  would  not  call  an  old  man  a  coward  because  he 
rebukes  with  a  smile  a  young  brute  who  has  struck  him. 
Old  mystic  India  prefers  to  starve  rather  than  to  outrage 
her  philosophy  with  war.  She  has  even  adjusted  her 
philosophy  to  the  spectacle  of  her  children  starving, 
rather  than  to  descend  to  the  outgrown  ugliness  of  phys 
ical  warfare.  It  has  been  work  of  mine  to  study  the 
nations  somewhat,  and  I  have  come  to  think  of  them  as 
human  beings  at  different  ages.  .  .  .  Look  at  young 
Japan — the  sixteen-year-old  among  the  powers !  A 
brown-skinned,  black-eyed  boy,  cruel,  unlit  from  within, 
formidable,  and  itching  to  use  again  the  strength  he  has 
once1  felt.  To  the  boy-brain,  supremacy  at  war  is  the 
highest  victory  the  world  can  give.  Japan  has  the  health 
of  a  boy,  heals  like  an  earth-worm,  and  blazes  with  pride 
in  the  possession  of  his  first  weapons.  Like  the  boy  again, 
he  is  blind  to  the  intrinsic  rights  of  women.  Shamelessly, 
he  casts  his  women  out  over  the  seven  seas  to  fill  the 
brothels  of  every  port — breeds  human  cattle  to  feed  the 
world's  lusts,  and  knows  no  prick  of  pride — but  watch 
him  run  hot-breathed  to  the  rifle-pits  if  so  much  as  a 
bit  of  humor  from  an  outside  nation  stirs  the  restless 
chip  upon  his  shoulder!  Brute  boy,  Japan,  the  trophies 
of  conquests  are  as  yet  but  incidents  to  him.  The  soldier 
is  in  highest  manifestation ;  the  expansionist  not  yet 
weaned.  He  fights  for  the  great  glory  of  the  fight — mad 
with  the  direct  and  awful  lust  of  standing  in  the  midst 
of  the  fallen.  .  .  . 

"  America  ?     .     .     .     Yes,     I     am     an     American. 


134  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

America  is  thirty-five,  as  I  see  her,  and  her  passion  is 
for  the  symbol  of  conquest,  Dollars.  America  is  self- 
tranced  by  looking  into  money,  as  those  who  gaze  at 
crystal.  The  dollar-toxin  riots  in  her  veins.  All  the 
corrosion  of  the  cursed  Hebraic  propensity  for  the  con 
crete,  appears  to  be  the  heritage  of  America.  She  is 
amassing  as  men  never  amassed  before.  She  is  lean  from 
garnering,  so  terrifically  beset  with  multiples  and  divisors 
that  she  has  not  even  learned  the  material  usages  of 
money — how  to  spend  gracefully.  One  night  an  Amer 
ican  is  a  profligate  prince;  the  next  day  a  scheming, 
ravening,  fish-blooded  money-changer  to  pay  for  it.  So 
busy  is  America  collecting  the  symbols  of  possession,  that 
she  has  little  time  to  turn  her  thoughts  to  war,  though 
she  has  by  no  means  yet  lost  her  physical  condition. 
Having  whipped  England  once,  and  purged  herself  with 
an  internecine  struggle,  America  now  believes  that  she 
has  only  to  drop  her  ticker,  her  groceries,  and  her  paper 
continents,  snatch  up  the  rifle  and  cartridge-belt — to  whip 
the  world.  Just  a  case  of  necessity,  you  know,  and 
Grants  and  Lees  and  Lincolns  will  arise ;  labor  turn  into 
militia,  and  the  land  a  sounding-board  of  trampling  in- 
vincibles.  But  war  is  not  the  real  expression  of  America 
in  this  young  century.  Financial  precedence  over  one's 
neighbor,  vulgar  outward  flaunts  of  opulence,  lights, 
noise,  glitter,  show — these  are  the  forms  of  expression  in 
vogue — concrete  evidences  of  a  more  or  less  concrete 
accumulation.  The  excesses  of  America  are  momentary 
in  contrast  to  the  steady  glut-glut  of  big-belted  Europe. 
Of  her  glory  I  do  not  speak,  of  her  humor,  her  inven 
tions.  It  is  this  low  present  propensity — that  is  hard  to 
bear.  So  rich  still  are  America's  national  resources  that 


Mr.  Jasper  is  Informed  135 

she  has  found  no  need  of  an  India  yet.  May  she  put  on 
wisdom  and  sweetness  while  the  evil  days  come  not — 
God  bless  her!  .  .  . 

"  Look  at  England — fat  and  fifty,  overfed,  short  of 
breath,  thickening  in  girth,  deepening  in  brain.  England 
building  her  ships  to  fatten  in  peace ;  talking  much  of 
war  to  keep  the  peace,  but  far  beyond  the  zest  and  stir  of 
trumpets.  England,  entered  upon  her  inevitable  period  of 
physical  decadence,  boasting  of  conquests,  like  a  middle- 
aged  man  with  rheum  in  his  eye,  the  clog  of  senility  under 
his  waist-coat,  stiffness  in  his  joints,  and  the  red  lights  of 
apoplexy  bright  upon  his  throat — who  throws  out  his 
chest  among  his  sons  and  pants  that  he  is  '  better  than 
ever,  e'gad ! '  England,  sensuous  in  the  home,  crowding 
her  houses  like  a  squirrel's  nest  in  the  frosts ;  an  animated 
stomach,  already  cultivating  and  condimenting  her  fitful 
but  necessary  appetites ;  wise  and  crafty  in  the  world, 
but  purblind  to  her  own  perversions  and  lying  in  the  rot 
of  them.  .  .  .  England,  who  will  not  put  awray 
boyish  things  and  look  to  God !  .  .  .  She  is  draining 
India  as  Rome  drained  Gaul,  as  Spain  drained  Mexico, 
and  accelerating  the  bestiality  which  spells  ruin — with  the 
spoils.  .  .  .  What  a  sweet  and  perfect  retaliation  if 
Gaul  could  only  have  seen  the  monstrous  offspring  of 
the  Caesars ;  if  the  Aztecs  had  only  endured  to  see  what 
befell  Spain  after  the  Noche  Triste;  if  India — but  did 
not  India  point  out  in  her  philosophy  the  wages  of 
national,  vampirism — before  Cortez  and  before  the 
Caesars  ? 

'  Then,  if  I  am  not  wearying  you,  we  might  look  at 
Russia,  sundering  in  the  pangs  of  wretched  age.  Mad, 
lesioned,  its  body  a  parliament  of  pains,  its  brain  vaporing 


136  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

of  past  glories  in  its  present  ghastliness  of  disintegration. 

"  And  India,  I  see  a  difference  here.  All  men  as  all 
nations  must  suffer.  Europe  and  America  are  learning  to 
suffer  through  their  excesses ;  India  through  her  priva 
tions,  a  cleaner,  holier  way.  ...  I  think  of  India  as 
an  old  widow  who  has  given  away  her  possessions  to  a 
litter  of  Gonerils  and  Absaloms — put  away  all  the  vanities 
of  conquest  and  material  possessions — a  poor  old  widow 
with  gaunt  breasts  and  palsied  hands,  who  asks  only  a 
seat  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  crumbs  from  the  table 
of  the  world !  .  .  .  She  has  still  kept  a  smile  of 
kindliness  for  the  world,  as  she  sits  in  the  gloom,  her 
soul  lifting  to  the  stars.  .  .  . 

"  After  all,  famine  blinds  us,  because  we  are  here 
in  the  midst  of  it.  It  is  hard  to  restrain  one's  rebel 
lion  in  the  midst  of  Rydamphur's  dead,  when  one  thinks 
that  the  Englishman  spends  for  intoxicating  drinks 
annually  two-and-one-half-times  what  the  Hindu  indi 
vidual  spends  for  food,  drink,  fuel,  clothing,  medicine, 
recreation,  education,  and  religion.  It  horrifies  us  little 
to  think  that  at  home  they  are  spending  on  roaring 
Broadway,  this  very  night,  in  dines  and  wines  and  steins, 
and  kindred  vanities  and  viciousness,  enough  to  keep  a 
million  native  mothers  in  milk  for  their  babes  a  fortnight. 
If  we  could  sit  away  up  in  the  Hills  so  that  all  the  world 
were  in  its  proper  relation  and  perspective,  we  might  per 
ceive  something  sanitive  and  less  sodden  in  starvation, 
something  less  pestilential  than  the  death  of  drink  and 
gluttony.  You  know  the  soul  burns  bright  at  the  end 
of  much  fasting." 

The  tall  stranger  had  spoken  mildly  in  the  main,  as  if 
discussing  matters  of  food  before  him.  Only  occasionally 


Mr.  Jasper  is  Informed  137 

he  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  lit  with  prophecy  or  rebellion. 
Mr.  Jasper  felt  the  animation  of  the  other's  presence 
most  remarkably.  He  had  never  met  such  a  man,  and 
said  so  with  boyish  impulsiveness. 

The  other  regarded  him  with  genuine  gratitude.  "  I 
was  afraid  that  I  had  spoken  too  freely.  One  is  inclined 
to  be  fluent  in  the  thing  he  knows  well.  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  I  know  India,  but  only  that  I  have  studied 
India  long.  She  has  many  facets,  and  at  best  one's  views 
are  but  one's  own." 

Mr.  Jasper  offered  his  card. 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I  am  not  carry 
ing  cards  just  now.  My  name  matters  little  to  any  one, 
but  I  wish  you  a  very  good  night." 

The  Syracuse  manufacturer  went  to  his  room  and  sat 
in  the  dark  under  the  punkahs,  staring  out  the  window  and 
studying  what  he  had  heard.  The  saffron  desert  was 
ghostly  gray  under  the  brilliant  low-hanging  stars,  and 
all  objects  were  black  and  blotchy  upon  it.  It  made  him 
think  of  paintings  of  Egyptian  nights — paintings  hung 
he  could  not  remember  where.  He  was  troubled  because 
the  stranger  withheld  his  name.  Here  was  a  man  with 
whom  he  would  have  rejoiced  to  travel,  to  know 
better  and  better.  The  thought  which  recurred  strongest 
out  of  all  that  he  had  heard  was :  "  All  men,  as  all  nations, 
must  suffer.  Europe  and  America  are  learning  to  suffer 
through  their  excesses ;  India  through  her  privations,  a 
cleaner,  holier  way." 

The  drone  of  the  punkah-leathers  ruffled  his  very  good 
nerves  at  last,  and  Mr.  Jasper  went  out  to  walk.  In  a 
little  hut  at  the  far-end  of  the  street,  to  which  he  was 
attracted  by  candle-light  and  the  voices  of  white  men, 


138  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

he  perceived  three  figures  through  the  open  doorway. 
One  was  an  ancient  Hindu,  sitting  with  bowed  head  upon 
the  matting.  The  second  was  a  white  man  in  native 
dress,  whom  he  had  seen  emerging  from  the  hut  of 
horrors  in  the  afternoon — the  face  incapable  of  tan  and 
vivid  with  tragic  sorrow.  The  third  was  the  sun-dark 
ened  young  giant  who  had  left  him  earlier  in  the  evening, 
who  had  spoken  of  India  and  of  her  famines,  and  dis 
cussed  the  Powers  as  familiarly  as  one  might  discuss  his 
partners  or  rivals  in  business.  Quite  inadvertently,  Mr. 
Jasper  heard  the  name  which  had  been  withheld  from 
him  by  its  owner — the  name  of  Routledge.  .  .  .  The 
next  day  he  mentioned  this  name  to  the  Englishman  of 
the  Famine  Relief,  who  had  brought  provisions  to  little 
Rydamphur.  He  discovered  that  it  was  a  name  to  un 
cover  devils. 


TENTH  CHAPTER 

A  SINGULAR  POWER  IS  MANIFEST  IN  THE  LITTLE 
HUT  AT  RYDAMPHUR,  AND  ROUTLEDGE  PER 
CEIVES  HIS  WORK  IN  ANOTHER  WAR 

LEAVING  the  Rest  House,  Routledge  walked  in  the 
mingled  gray  and  shadow  to  the  hut  of  the  candle-light, 
wtfere  Mr.  Jasper  afterward  saw  him.  He  entered  softly. 
The  aged  Hindu  sat  cross-legged  upon  a  mat  of  rice 
straw,  his  eyelids  closed  as  if  by  effort,  his  lips  and  entire 
chest  moving  with  the  Name.  This  was  Sekar,  the 
master  who  had  come  down  from  the  goodly  mountains 
for  his  chela — the  bravest  man.  Rawder  was  lying  full- 
length  upon  the  floor,  his  head  raised  over  an  open  book, 
upon  which  the  light  shone.  He  held  up  his  hand  to 
Routledge,  and  a  glad  smile  formed  on  the  deep-lined, 
pallid  face. 

"  Sit  down  in  the  cool  of  the  doorway,  and  let  us  talk, 
my  good  iriend.  What  has  the  day  brought  you  ?  " 

Routledge  obeyed,  amused  at  "  the  cool  of  the  door 
way."  The  night  breeze  was  but  a  withering  breath 
from  the  hot  sand. 

'  The  day  has  brought  sundry  brown  babes,  and  I 
have  dutifully  squeezed  a  milky  rag  into  their  open 
mouths.  Also,  I  bought  the  last  rice  which  the  Chunder 
person  who  keeps  the  Rest  House  will  sell  at  any  price, 
and  passed  it  out  to  the  edges  of  the  hunger.  The  morn 
ing  will  bring  us  more  dead.  What  a  gruesome  monot 
ony  it  is — dying,  dying,  dying — and  they  make  so  little 

139 


140  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

noise  about  it.  Also,  I  was  so  oppressed  with  famine  that 
I  found  a  good,  unobtrusive  American  and  crowded  him 
with  facts  for  an  hour — a  countryman  of  ours,  Rawder." 

"  A  countryman  of  ours,"  Rawder  repeated  softly. 
"  It  is  long  since  I  have  heard  the  sound  of  a  thought 
like  that.  I  am  not  to  see  my  country  again,  good 
brother." 

"  Then,  has  Sekar  told  you  what  you  are  to  do  ?  " 

"  Yes.  We  travel  to-night  northward.  The  English 
will  be  here  to-morrow  with  grain,  so  that  our  work  is 
done  in  Rydamphur.  You  will  stay  here  until  to-morrow, 
as  you  said,  and  then  return  westward  to  the  railroad, 
when  the  English  come." 

"  Are  you  permitted  to  tell  me  all  that  he  said  ?  " 
Routledge  asked. 

"  Yes.  To-night  at  dusk,  Sekar  stirred  from  his 
meditations  and  we  spoke  together  long.  I  told  him  that 
you  meant  my  whole  race  to  me ;  that  you  were  dearer  to 
me  than  any  human  being  I  had  ever  known.  I  asked 
if  he  would  permit  you  to  travel  with  us  a  little  longer. 
He  shook  his  head.  There  is  much  for  you  still  to  do  in 
the  world.  He  said  that  you  would  begin  to  find  your 
work  as  soon  as  you  reached  travelled-lines.  I  told 
him  that  your  life  was  in  danger  where  the  English 
were  many ;  that  your  life  had  been  attempted  in  Madras, 
and  that  it  was  a  heavy  sorrow  for  me  to  part  with  you  so 
soon.  I  asked  him  if  your  work  in  the  world  were  abso 
lute — if  it  would  not  be  good  for  your  soul  to  travel 
slowly  to  the  Hills,  doing  what  we  found  to  do  on  the 
way.  Sekar  shook  his  head.  .  .  .  Ah,  Routledge, 
my  brother,  there  is  to  be  another  war  for  you.  There 
will  come  a  day  in  which  you  will  know  a  great  need 


The  Little  Hut  at  Rydamphur          141 

for  human  aid,  and  it  will  not  be  given  me  to  come  to 
you — but  another — a  woman !  " 

Rawder's  voice  trembled.  Routledge  never  forgof 
the  moment.  The  restless,  writhing  flame  of  the  candle, 
straining  as  if  for  more  vital  air;  little  Rydamphur,  out 
of  the  ken  of  the  world,  and  death  moving  from  hut  to 
hut;  the  still,  dreadful  Indian  night;  the  ancient  mystic, 
tranced  in  meditation,  so  emaciated  with  years  and  asceti 
cism  that  each  added  breath  seemed  a  dispensation;  the 
white  face  of  Rawder,  which  had  long  since  been  graven 
with  beautiful  meanings  for  his  friend;  the  eyes  of 
Rawder,  which  had  never  been  defiled  by  hate  or  rage  or 
lust,  so  radiant  with  sorrow  now ;  and  the  revelations  on 
Rawder's  lips,  which  half  the  human  family  is  still  so 
young  as  to  have  called  madness. 

"  He  is  right,"  said  Routledge.  "  It  is  the  law. 
You  have  naught  to  do  with  human  attachments  on  the 
way  to  the  Hills.  And  I  am  to  follow  the  fortunes  of 
another  war  ?  " 

"  Such  a  war  as  never  has  been " 

"In  Asia?" 

"  Yes.  In  the  north — beyond  the  mountains.  He 
did  not  say  more,  but  you  are  soon  to  know.  God  pity 
you,  Routledge!  How  gladly  would  I  take  the  travail 
from  you !  You  are  to  fall — not  among  the  piled  dead, 
not  in  the  thundering  centres  of  battle,  but  apart.  .  .  . 
You  are  to  live.  He  promised  me  that  you  would  not 
die,  and  that  another,  a  woman,  would  come  to  help  you. 
I  know  you  are  to  live,  because  it  is  written  that  once 
more  in  this  life  I  am  to  take  your  hand." 

"  Just  once  more  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


144  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

in  the  Leper  Valley  can  haunt  and  torture  the  soul  of 
your  friend  like  this." 

The  half  had  never  been  told  before.  Routledge 
bowed  before  the  great  devotion  of  this  simplest  and 
holiest  man  the  world  had  shown  him.  In  a  swift  gesture 
Rawder's  hand  had  passed  between  the  eyes  of  the 
correspondent  and  the  candle-flame.  Fragile,  trembling, 
almost  transparent,  it  was  eloquent  with  a  beauty 
Routledge  had  never  noted  before.  Within  himself 
great  changes  were  enacting. 

There  was  power  in  that  little  Rydamphur  hut,  power 
from  the  hidden  wells  of  creation.  It  was  made  clear  to 
him  what  force  had  impelled  Sekar  to  find  his  chela. 
There  was  karma  still  for  the  ancient  Hindu  to  work  out, 
since  he  dragged  his  weary,  grave-hungering  flesh  down 
from  the  peace  and  purity  of  his  mountains  to  the  burn 
ing  plains  of  men — to  take  back  this  whitest  soul  of  the 
Occident. 

"  Rawder,"  Routledge  said  slowly,  reverently,  "  It 
has  long  been  a  big  part  of  my  understanding — what  you 
mean  to  me.  I  once  told  a  lady  of  you — of  my  bravest 
man —  and  this  lady  watches  and  listens  for  you  across 
the  world.  That  I  go  back  into  battle  again  is  quite  right 
and  inevitable.  I  have  not  yet  reached  Mother  Earth's 
graduating  class.  The  wound  which  you  foretell  is  noth 
ing.  It  is  good  that  I  am  to  see  you  once  more — even 
in  the  Leper  Valley — though  it  holds  you  longer  than  I 
thought  from  the  rest  you  have  earned.  As  for  parting, 
you  know  better  than  I  that  the  word  has  no  meaning. 
You  know  better  than  I  that  the  relations  between  master 
and  disciple  do  not  end  with  the  body,  nor  the  relations 
of  friend  and  friend.  There  never  has  lived  a  pure  great 


The  Little  Hut  at  Rydamphur          145 

soul,  who  has  not  glimpsed  what  means  the  emancipa 
tion  from  the  flesh,  and  discerned  in  his  high  moments 
such  joys  that  the  strength  of  his  soul  was  sternly  tried 
in  the  effort  to  live  out  his  allotted  days.  If  such  glimpses 
were  given  to  all  men,  the  nations  would  suffer  from  a 
shock  of  suicide  such  as  no  war  nor  famine  ever  wrought. 

"  We  will  both  go  gladly  to  our  work.  I  see  my 
mission  clearly  to-night.  It  is  to  scoff  at  war  before  men ; 
tp  show  what  a  monstrous  activity  it  is  for  men;  to  show 
how  black  is  the  magic  of  the  ambitious  few,  who  dare 
to  make  cannon-meat  of  God's  multitudes.  I,  the  watcher 
of  many  services,  who  am  supposed  to  bow  before  the 
battle-lines,  and  carve  my  career  from  their  triumphs  and 
defeats,  shall  laugh  at  their  untimely  and  ridiculous 
manifestations.  At  the  last,  I  shall  paint  war  so  red,  so 
real,  in  all  its  ghastly,  abortive  reality,  that  the  nations 
shall  shudder — as  at  the  towering  crime  on  Calvary 
— shudder  to  the  quick  of  their  souls,  and  sin  no  more !  " 

The  moment  was  exalted.  Something  vaster,  nobler, 
than  mere  human  consciousness  expanded  within 
Routledge.  .  .  .  He  saw  the  pitiful  pawns  thronging 
to  fill  the  legions  of  Caesar,  who  stooped  to  learn  the 
names  of  certain  of  his  centurions.  He  saw  that  black 
plague,  Napoleon,  and  the  regiments  herding  for  slaugh 
ter  under  his  glaring,  spike-pointed  eye ;  great  masses  of 
God-loved  men  vying  to  die  swiftly  at  a  word  from  that 
iron-rimmed  cavern  of  desolation,  Napoleon's  mouth — 
the  mouth  which  deigned  to  utter  from  time  to  time  the 
names  of  chiefs  he  counted  upon  presently  to  murder. 
Caesar  and  Napoleon,  incarnates  of  devilish  ambition, 
mastodons  of  licensed  crime,  towering  epileptics  both. 
.  .  .  He  hungered  for  the  time  when  the  world  would 
10 


144  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

in  the  Leper  Valley  can  haunt  and  torture  the  soul  of 
your  friend  like  this." 

The  half  had  never  been  told  before.  Routledge 
bowed  before  the  great  devotion  of  this  simplest  and 
holiest  man  the  world  had  shown  him.  In  a  swift  gesture 
Rawder's  hand  had  passed  between  the  eyes  of  the 
correspondent  and  the  candle-flame.  Fragile,  trembling, 
almost  transparent,  it  was  eloquent  with  a  beauty 
Routledge  had  never  noted  before.  Within  himself 
great  changes  were  enacting. 

There  was  power  in  that  little  Rydamphur  hut,  power 
from  the  hidden  wells  of  creation.  It  was  made  clear  to 
him  what  force  had  impelled  Sekar  to  find  his  chela. 
There  was  karma  still  for  the  ancient  Hindu  to  work  out, 
since  he  dragged  his  weary,  grave-hungering  flesh  down 
from  the  peace  and  purity  of  his  mountains  to  the  burn 
ing  plains  of  men — to  take  back  this  whitest  soul  of  the 
Occident. 

"  Rawder,"  Routledge  said  slowly,  reverently,  "  It 
has  long  been  a  big  part  of  my  understanding — what  you 
mean  to  me.  I  once  told  a  lady  of  you — of  my  bravest 
man —  and  this  lady  watches  and  listens  for  you  across 
the  world.  That  I  go  back  into  battle  again  is  quite  right 
and  inevitable.  I  have  not  yet  reached  Mother  Earth's 
graduating  class.  The  wound  which  you  foretell  is  noth 
ing.  It  is  good  that  I  am  to  see  you  once  more — even 
in  the  Leper  Valley — though  it  holds  you  longer  than  I 
thought  from  the  rest  you  have  earned.  As  for  parting, 
you  know  better  than  I  that  the  word  has  no  meaning. 
You  know  better  than  I  that  the  relations  between  master 
and  disciple  do  not  end  with  the  body,  nor  the  relations 
of  friend  and  friend.  There  never  has  lived  a  pure  great 


The  Little  Hut  at  Rydamphur          145 

soul,  who  has  not  glimpsed  what  means  the  emancipa 
tion  from  the  flesh,  and  discerned  in  his  high  moments 
such  joys  that  the  strength  of  his  soul  was  sternly  tried 
in  the  effort  to  live  out  his  allotted  days.  If  such  glimpses 
were  given  to  all  men,  the  nations  would  suffer  from  a 
shock  of  suicide  such  as  no  war  nor  famine  ever  wrought. 

"  We  will  both  go  gladly  to  our  work.  I  see  my 
mission  clearly  to-night.  It  is  to  scoff  at  war  before  men ; 
tp  show  what  a  monstrous  activity  it  is  for  men;  to  show 
how  black  is  the  magic  of  the  ambitious  few,  who  dare 
to  make  cannon-meat  of  God's  multitudes.  I,  the  watcher 
of  many  services,  who  am  supposed  to  bow  before  the 
battle-lines,  and  carve  my  career  from  their  triumphs  and 
defeats,  shall  laugh  at  their  untimely  and  ridiculous 
manifestations.  At  the  last,  I  shall  paint  war  so  red,  so 
real,  in  all  its  ghastly,  abortive  reality,  that  the  nations 
shall  shudder — as  at  the  towering  crime  on  Calvary 
— shudder  to  the  quick  of  their  souls,  and  sin  no  more !  " 

The  moment  was  exalted.  Something  vaster,  nobler, 
than  mere  human  consciousness  expanded  within 
Routledge.  .  .  .  He  saw  the  pitiful  pawns  thronging 
to  fill  the  legions  of  Caesar,  who  stooped  to  learn  the 
names  of  certain  of  his  centurions.  He  saw  that  black 
plague,  Napoleon,  and  the  regiments  herding  for  slaugh 
ter  under  his  glaring,  spike-pointed  eye ;  great  masses  of 
God-loved  men  vying  to  die  swiftly  at  a  word  from  that 
iron-rimmed  cavern  of  desolation,  Napoleon's  mouth — 
the  mouth  which  deigned  to  utter  from  time  to  time  the 
names  of  chiefs  he  counted  upon  presently  to  murder. 
Caesar  and  Napoleon,  incarnates  of  devilish  ambition, 
mastodons  of  licensed  crime,  towering  epileptics  both. 
.  .  .  He  hungered  for  the  time  when  the  world  would 
10 


146  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

learn  to  bottle  such  admirable  concentrates  of  hell-poison 
before  they  shamed  humanity  by  driving  poor  group- 
souled  masses  first  mad  and  then  into  the  ignoble  death 
of  war. 

"  It  has  been  a  high  night  to  me,  Rawder,"  Routledge 
said.  "  I  am  proud  to  thank  you  for  showing  me  my 
work.  And  I  can  see  yours  on  and  on — even  to  the 
Leper  Valley.  .  .  .  Strange,  Rawder,  but  there  is 
a  picture  with  it,  in  my  mind — a  picture  that  has  always 
come  to  me  in  high,  hard  moments.  .  .  .  Nightfall 
— a  land  of  hills  and  heat,  and  a  dusty,  winding  highway. 
The  Christ  passes  in  the  midst  of  a  throng.  He  is  weary, 
athirst,  and  hungering.  The  empty  voices  of  the  crowd 
bind  His  thoughts  to  misery.  The  pitiful  ways  of  men 
have  put  a  martyrdom  of  sadness  in  His  heart.  At  length 
above  the  whispering  of  feet  on  the  warm  sand,  above 
the  Babel  of  the  followers,  comes  to  His  ear  alone  a  moan 
from  the  darkness.  It  thrills  with  agony.  He  leaves  the 
highway.  The  throng  understands.  They  pull  at  His 
garments  and  cry,  *  Unclean !  Unclean ! '  Even  the  leper 
lying  in  the  darkness  warns  Him,  '  Unclean ! '  as  is  the 
law.  .  .  .  But  the  beautiful  Christ  bends  with  the 
touch  of  healing!  .  .  . 

"  I  shall  come  to  find  you  in  the  Leper  Valley,  my 
bravest  man.  And  you  shall  go  on  after  that  to  the 
great  peace  that  is  '  mortised  and  tenoned '  in  the  granite 
of  the  Hills !  .  .  .  But,  Rawder,  you  shall  look  back 
out  of  the  glorious  amplitude  beyond  the  Leper  Valley 
to  find  at  last  that  your  friend  is  nearly  ready.  Perhaps 
you  will  come  for  him — even  as  Sekar  came  for  you." 

With  a  quick  intaking  of  breath,  the  material  con 
sciousness  of  the  Hindu  returned. 


The  Little  Hut  at  Rydamphur          147 

"  It  is  the  hour,"  he  said  to  his  chela.  "  We  travel  in 
the  night." 

Again  the  fleeting  look  of  agony  across  the  white 
face  of  Rawder,  but  Routledge  gripped  his  shoulder,  and 
spoke  to  Sekar: 

"  It  is  a  little  thing,  but  I  have  plenty  of  money,  if 
you  need  it.  Would  you  not  travel — at  least,  out  of  the 
region  of  great  heat — in  the  fire-carriages  of  the  English  ? 
Aj  fortnight's  journey  each  daylight  ?  " 

The  Sannyasi  answered :  "  The  beloved  of  my  dis 
ciple  has  earned  many  favors.  It  has  been  made  clear 
to  me  that  we  must  travel  alone  and  on  foot.  I  am  very 
old,  but  there  is  still  strength  for  the  journey — or  I 
should  not  have  been  sent." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand — it  was  like  a  charred 
branch — and  Routledge  bent  his  head  for  the  blessing. 

"  You  have  chosen  well,  beloved  of  my  chela.  It  is 
the  shorter,  steeper  way  you  tread.  This  life  you  have 
dedicated  to  the  service  of  men,  and  you  are  bound  to  the 
Wheel  by  the  love  of  woman.  Fulfil  the  duties  all,  and 
the  way  shall  be  quickened.  Once  more  our  paths  shall 
meet — and  there  shall  be  four — in  the  Leper  Valley !  " 

Rawder  poured  a  cup  of  water  upon  the  aged  feet, 
dried  them  with  a  cloth,  and  drew  the  sandals  firm. 

"  Night  and  morning  I  shall  send  you  my  blessing, 
Routledge,  my  brother,"  he  said,  standing  near  the  door. 
"  Morning  and  evening,  until  we  meet  again  in  the  Leper 
Valley,  you  shall  know  that  there  is  a  heart  that  thrills 
for  the  good  of  your  life  and  your  soul.  Good-by." 

They  passed  out  into  the  torrid  night.  Their  white 
garments  turned  to  gray;  then  dulled  into  shadows, 
northward  on  the  dust-deep  Indian  road. 


ELEVENTH  CHAPTER 

A  HAND  TOUCHES  THE  SLEEVE  OF  THE  GREAT  FRIEZE 

COAT  IN  THE  WINTRY  TWILIGHT  ON 

THE  BUND  AT  SHANGHAI 

ROUTLEDGE  sat  long  in  meditation  after  Rawder  and 
his  master  had  taken  up  their  journey.  Time  passed 
unmeasured  over  his  head  until  he  was  aroused  by  the 
guttering  of  a  candle-wick.  In  quite  an  un-American 
fashion,  he  believed  the  prophetic  utterances  which  the 
night  had  brought.  The  more  a  man  knows,  the  more 
he  will  believe.  The  mark  of  a  small  man  is  ever  his 
incapacity  to  accept  that  which  he  cannot  hold  in  con 
tinual  sight.  Still,  Routledge  endured  a  reaction  for  the 
high  moments  of  the  recent  hour.  Sekar  and  Rawder 
and  the  power  were  gone  from  Rydamphur.  He  even 
felt  abashed  because  of  his  outbursts  to  Rawder,  so 
long  had  he  been  accustomed  to  the  iron  control  of  his 
emotions.  It  was  not  that  he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had 
said,  but  torrential  utterance  leaves  depletion.  He  did 
not  feel  the  strength  now  to  make  men  laugh  at  wars, 
nor  to  stay  the  tide  of  the  world's  wars  by  painting  the 
volcanic  wrath  of  nations  in  all  its  futile  and  ferocious 
significance. 

That  he  was  to  be  hurt  in  the  new  war  was  in  itself 
but  a  vague  anxiety,  dull  of  consideration  except  for  its 
relation  to  the  foretelling — that  another  was  to  come  to 
help  him !  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  the  wound  would 
come  from  his  enemies.  Once  before,  a  night  in  Madras, 

148 


The  Great  Frieze  Coat  149 

as  he  was  entering  a  house  of  hiding  a  noose  of  leather 
dropped  upon  his  shoulder.  It  was  jerked  tight  with  a 
sinister  twang.  Routledge  had  just  escaped  the  garrote 
in  the  dark.  He  could  not  always  escape ;  and  yet  he  was 
not  to  die  next  time.  Rawder  said :  ..."  To  fall 
wounded,  apart  from  the  battle-field,  to  lie  helplessly 
regarding  men  and  events  from  the  fallen  state,  instead 
of  face  to  face — this  was  but  one  of  the  tossing  tragedies 
of,  cloud  in  his  mind.  Yet  there  was  a  radiant  light  in 
the  midst  of  it  all — only  one  woman  in  the  world's  half- 
billion  would  come  to  him. 

Any  suffering  was  cheap  to  prevent  her  coming — 
but  he  could  not  prevent !  One  cannot  run  from  a  vision 
or  a  prophecy.  It  is  well  to  obey  when  one  is  ordered  up 
into  Nineveh.  Even  Sekar  had  cast  him  off,  because  he 
was  a  counter-attraction  to  the  soul  of  Rawder.  He 
could  not  forswear  war — and  so  avoid  the  promised 
wound,  which  would  enable  her  to  find  him — since  he  was 
not  to  meet  the  levelling  stroke  during  a  collision  of 
troops,  but  somewhere  apart.  It  was  a  chain  of  circum 
stances  in  which  he  was  absolutely  powerless — and  she 
was  coming  to  him ! 

First,  it  would  mean  that  Jerry  Cardinegh,  the  man 
he  had  preserved,  was  dead.  If  he  were  dead  with 
his  secret,  Noreen  would  find  him — Routledge — identify 
herself  with  the  most  loathed  of  outcasts,  fleeing  forever 
before  the  eyes  and  fingers  of  England.  There  was 
rebellion  against  this  in  every  plane  of  the  man's 
consciousness.  He  could  not  suffer  his  love,  nor  hers, 
to  be  tested  by  such  a  tragedy.  He  would  flee  again 
from  her.  .  .  .  But  if  old  Jerry  had  remembered 
the  truth  at  the  last — if  the  fates  had  willed  him  to 


150  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

tell  the  monstrous  truth — and  the  Hate  of  London  were 
lifted  from  the  name  of  Routledge,  to  become  a  heritage 
of  Noreen  Cardinegh — and  then  if  she  should  come  to 
him !  He  could  not  cover  his  eyes  to  the  flash  of  radiance 
which  this  thought  brought  him.  .  .  .  He  would 
have  died  to  prevent  such  a  thing  from  coming  to  pass. 
For  more  than  a  year,  he  had  kept  out  of  the  ken  of  the 
world,  to  forestall  any  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  Cardi- 
negh's,  to  find  him.  He  was  worn  to  a  shadow,  hunted, 
harrowed,  hated,  lost  to  himself  in  disguises,  ever  apart 
from  the  gatherings  of  men  and  the  decent  offerings  of 
life —  all  to  prevent  the  very  thing  which,  in  thinking  of 
now,  lit  every  lamp  of  his  being.  Quite  as  readily  would 
he  have  performed  the  treachery  for  which  he  suffered 
as  return  to  the  father  of  Noreen  Cardinegh,  saying: 
"  I  am  tired,  Jerry.  Give  me  back  my  name."  But  if, 
after  all  he  had  done  to  spare  her  from  the  truth,  the 
fates  ruled  against  him — then  he  would  not  flee  from 
her! 

Hours  passed.  Ever}'  little  while,  through  the  piling 
cumulus  of  disorder,  would  flash  the  reality,  and  for 
the  interval  he  ceased  to  breathe.  .  .  .  To  think 
of  looking  up  from  some  half-delirium  and  discovering 
her  face !  To  feel  the  touch  of  her  hand — this  woman — 
attuned  to  respond  to  every  vibration  of  his  voice  and 
brain  and  heart.  .  .  .  Sometimes  he  fell  into  a  heresy 
of  manhood  and  demanded  of  himself  what  significance 
had  England,  the  world,  compared  with  the  rest  of  his 
days  with  Noreen  Cardinegh,  in  the  glory  of  their  union 
which  formed  a  trinity — man  and  woman  and  happi 
ness.  .  .  . 

He   laughed   bitterly   at   the   starry   distances.      "  It 


Tbe  Great  Frieze  Coat  151 

would  be  a  fitting  end  for  a  man  who  is  supposed  to  have 
betrayed  the  country  he  served — to  allow  a  woman  to 
share  such  fortunes  as  mine,  and  take  up  the  trail  of  an 
outcast." 

Routledge  rose  to  go  to  the  Rest  House,  but  reflected 
that  it  must  be  nearer  dawn  than  midnight.  He  was 
curiously  disinclined  to  seek  his  room  at  this  hour.  With 
his  face  to  the  doorway,  he  sank  down  upon  the  matting 
and  rested  his  chin  in  his  palms.  .  .  .  The  touch  of 
Rawder's  hand  awoke  him,  and  he  stared  in  wonder  at  the 
chela,  his  own  eyes  stinging  from  the  East  The  figure 
of  a  woman  was  prone  before  him. 

"  Routledge,  my  brother,  here  is  work  for  you.  I 
found  her  far  out  on  the  road.  She  was  crawling  into 
Rydamphur,  carrying  the  child.  I  could  not  leave  her. 
She  is  close  to  death.  Sekar  waits  for  me,  and  so  again, 
good-by." 

Rawder  had  turned  with  a  quick  hand-clasp,  and 
hurried  away  in  the  dawn-light  to  his  master.  It  was  all 
over  quickly  and  strangely — as  some  psychic  visitation. 
Routledge  was  already  wear}-  of  the  pitiless  day.  The 
blazing  temple  of  dawn  had  shone  full  upon  his  eyelids 
as  he  slept,  and  there  was  an  ache  deep  in  his  brain  from 
the  light.  .  .  .  The  woman  raised  her  head  from 
the  ground  waveringly,  like  a  crushed  serpent,  and 
plucked  at  his  garments.  There  was  a  still,  white-lipped 
babe  at  her  breast.  Her  voice  was  like  dried  sticks 
rubbing  together.  He  held  the  cup  of  water  to  her  lips. 

"  I  am  the  widow  of  Madan  Das,  who  is  dead  since 
the  drouth/'  she  told  him.  "  The  white  holy  man  carried 
me  here,  leaving  the  other  on  the  road.  This  is  my  son — 
the  son  of  Madan  Das.  There  were  two  others,  both 


152  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

girls,  but  they  are  dead  since  the  drouth.  Also  the 
brother  of  my  husband,  who  was  a  leper.  My  husband 
worked,  but  there  has  been  no  work  since  the  drouth. 
First  we  sold  the  cow " 

"  My  good  mother,  don't  try  to  talk,"  Routledge  said, 
as  he  lifted  her  into  the  hut,  but  she  could  not  under 
stand.  As  soon  as  he  had  placed  her  upon  the  matting, 
she  took  up  the  tale,  thinking  that  she  must  tell  it  all. 
Her  face  was  like  dusty  paper;  her  lips  dried  and 
stretched  apart.  Her  hair  had  fallen  away  in  patches,  and 
her  throat  was  like  an  aged  wrist. 

"  First  we  sold  the  cow,"  she  mumbled,  trying  to 
find  him  with  her  eyes,  "  then  we  sold  the  household 
things.  After  that  we  sold  the  doors  and  door-posts. 
Even  after  that  the  food  was  all  gone,  and  my  husband, 
whose  name  is"  Madan  Das,  gave  his  clothing  to  his 
brother,  who  is  a  leper,  to  sell  in  the  village  for  food. 
A  neighbor  lent  my  husband  a  cotton  cloth  to  put  about 
his  loins.  The  chaukadari  tax  was  due.  Madan  Das 
could  not  pay.  We  were  starving,  and  one  of  the  babes,  a 
girl,  was  dead.  The  tahsildar"  (a  collector  for  the 
English)  "  came  and  took  away  from  the  second  babe, 
who  was  in  the  doorway  of  our  house,  a  little  brass  bowl 
for  the  tax.  There  was  in  the  bowl  some  soup  which  my 
babe  was  eating — a  little  soup  made  of  bark,  flower-pods 
and  wild  berries.  .  .  .  Since  then  there  has  been 
no  food.  Madan  Das  is  dead,  and  the  two  girls  are  dead, 
and  the  brother  of  Madan  Das,  who  is  a  leper,  died  last 
night.  The  white  holy  man  carried  me  here,  leaving  the 
other  on  the  road.  This  is  the  son  of  Madan  Das " 

Life  was  going  out  of  her  with  the  words,  but  she 
would  not  stop.  Her  heart  was  pounding  like  a  fright- 


The  Great  Frieze  Coat  153 

ened  bird's.    The  weight  of  them  both  was  but  that  of  a 
healthy  child — an  armful  of  dissolution. 

"  Listen,  mother,"  Routledge  said.  "  Do  not  talk  any 
more.  I  am  going  to  the  Rest  House  to  get  food  for  you 
and  the  son  of  Madan  Das.  Lie  here  and  rest.  I  shall 
not  be  long." 

Even  as  he  left  her,  she  was  repeating  her  story.  He 
returned  with  a  pitcher  of  hot  tea,  strong  enough  to  color 
and  make  palatable  the  nourishment  of  half  a  can  of 
condensed  milk.  He  brought  a  servant  with  him,  and  a 
sheet  to  cover  the  woman.  Routledge  handed  the  child 
to  the  servant,  and  lifted  the  mother's  head  to  a  cup. 
Afterward  he  cleansed  her  face  and  throat  and  arms  with 
cool  water,  and  bade  her  sleep. 

"  The  little  one  is  quite  well,  mother,"  he  told  her 
softly.  "  All  is  well  with  you  now.  The  English  will 
be  here  to-day  with  much  food,  and  you  have  only  to 
rest.  The  child  eats." 

"  He  is  the  son  of  Madan  Das,"  she  mumbled,  "  and 
I  am  his  mother.  .  .  .  Do  not  forget." 

She  sank  into  a  half-stupor.  The  servant  had  spooned 
a  few  drops  into  the  babe's  mouth.  Routledge  took  the 
child — a  wee  thing,  light  as  a  kitten,  numbed  from  want, 
and  too  weak  to  cry.  Its  body  had  the  feel  of  a  glove, 
and  the  bones  showed  white  under  the  dry  brown  skin, 
and  protruded  like  the  bones  of  a  bat's  wing.  The  servant 
went  to  fetch  a  basin  of  water. 

"  Why  must  you,  little  seedling,  learn  the  hunger 
lesson  so  soon?  "  Routledge  reflected  whimsically.  "  You 
are  lots  too  little  to  have  done  any  wrong,  and  if  your 
bit  of  a  soul  is  stained  with  the  sins  of  other  lives,  you 
are  lots  too  little  to  know  that  you  are  being  punished 


154  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

for  them  now.  ...  I  should  have  asked  Sekar  of 
what  avail  is  the  karmic  imposition  of  hunger  upon  the 
body  of  a  babe." 

He  sponged  and  dried  the  little  one,  wrapped  him  in 
a  cloth,  and  fed  him  again — just  a  few  drops.  The  son 
of  Madan  Das  choked  and  gurgled  furthermore  over  a 
half-spoonful  of  water. 

"  Oh,  you're  not  nearly  so  far  gone  as  your  mother, 
my  son.  She  was  already  starving  before  your  ines 
timable  fountains  dried.  .  .  .  And  so  they  took 
away  your  sister's  little  brass  bowl — and  the  soup  made  of 
bark  and  flower-pods  and  wild  berries.  The  poor  tahsildar 
must  have  been  very  tired  and  hot  that  day.  .  .  . 
And  so  your  worthy  uncle  who  was  a  leper  sold  the 
clothing  of  Madan  Das,  who  borrowed  a  loin-cloth  from 
a  neighbor,  and  did  not  need  that  very  long.  .  .  . 
Curl  up  and  sleep  on  a  man's  arm,  my  wee  Rajput." 

Between  the  two,  Routledge  passed  the  forenoon.  At 
last,  miles  away  across  the  dusty  sun-shot  plain  east 
ward,  a  bullock-cart  appeared,  and  long  afterward  behind 
it,  faint  as  its  shadow,  another — and  others.  Almost 
imperceptibly,  they  moved  forward  on  the  twisting,  burn 
ing  road,  like  crippled  insects ;  and  the  poles  of  the  native- 
drivers  raised  from  time  to  time  like  tortured  antennas. 
There  was  a  murmur  now  within  the  huts  of  stricken 
Rydamphur.  Routledge  had  sent  his  baggage  west  to 
the  railroad  and  settled  his  account  at  the  Rest  House. 
He  would  leave  with  the  coming  of  the  famine  relief. 
The  child  was  better,  but  the  woman  could  not  rally. 
The  nourishment  lay  dead  within  her.  The  bullock-carts 
merely  moved  in  the  retina  of  his  eye.  He  was  thinking 
deep,  unbridled  things  in  the  stillness  of  high  noon. 


The  Great  Frieze  Coat  155 

The  great  law  of  cause  and  effect  had  brought  the 
answer  to  his  whimsical  question  of  a  few  hours  before. 
Why  did  karma  inflict  starvation  upon  the  child  before 
the  tablets  had  formed  within  him  on  which  the  lesson 
might  be  graven  for  his  life's  direction?  The  son  of 
Madan  Das  was  but  an  instrument  of  punishment  for 
the  mother.  .  .  .  What  wrong  she  must  have  done, 
according  to  Hindu  doctrine,  to  him  in  one  of  the  dim 
other  lives — when  she  was  forced  to  bring  him  into  the 
world,  the  famine-world  of  India,  forced  to  love  him, 
to  watch  him  waste  with  hunger,  and  to  crawl  with  him 
in  the  night.  Incomparable  maternal  tragedy.  The  sins 
of  how  many  lives  had  she  not  expiated  up  yonder  in 
the  withered  fields! 

The  woman's  arm  flung  itself  out  from  her  body,  and 
lay  in  a  checkered  patch  of  sunlight.  It  made  Routledge 
think  of  a  dried  and  shrunken  earth-worm  which  the 
morning  heat  had  overtaken  upon  a  wide  pavement.  Her 
eyelids  were  stretched  apart  now. 

Sierras  of  tragedy  are  pictured  in  the  eyes  of  the 
starving.  Processes  of  decay  are  intricate  and  marvellous 
— like  the  impulses  of  growth  and  replenishing.  There  is 
no  dissolution  which  so  masterfully  paints  itself  in  the 
human  eye  as  Hunger.  The  ball  is  lit  with  the  expiration 
of  the  body,  filled  with  a  smoky  glow  of  destroying  tissue. 
The  unutterable  mysteries  of  consummation  are  win 
dowed  there.  The  body  dies,  member  by  member;  all 
flesh  save  the  binding  fibres  wastes  away,  and  the  hideous 
hectic  story  of  it  all  is  told  in  the  widening,  ever  widen 
ing  eyes — even  to  the  glow  of  the  burning-ghats — all  is 
there. 

And  the  mother's  eyes!    She  was  already  old  in  the 


156  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

hunger-lesson.  The  husband,  Madan  Das ;  the  leper,  his 
brother;  the  two  little  girls;  the  little  brass  bowl — all 
were  gone,  when  this  child  ceased  to  feed  upon  the 
mother's  flesh.  And  still  she  crawled  with  the  last  of  her 
body  to  the  town — all  for  this  little  son  of  Madan  Das, 
who  slept  the  sleep  of  healing  within  reach  of  her  arm. 

Routledge  gazed  upon  the  great  passion  of  mother 
hood.  In  truth,  the  little  hut  in  Rydamphur  had  been  to 
him  a  place  of  unfolding  revelations.  He  had  seen  much 
of  death  in  wars,  but  this  war  was  so  poignant,  so  inti 
mate.  .  .  .  Why  did  the  woman  sin?  Routledge's 
tired  brain  forged  its  own  answer  on  the  vast  Hindu  plan 
of  triple  evolution.  Countless  changes  had  carried  this 
creature,  as  he  himself  had  been  carried,  up  from  a  worm 
to  a  human.  It  is  a  long  journey  begun  in  darkness,  and 
only  through  error,  and  the  pains  of  error,  does  the  soul- 
fragment  learn  to  distinguish  between  the  vile  and  the 
beautiful.  In  the  possession  of  refining  senses,  and  the 
travail  of  their  conquering,  the  soul  whitens  and  expands. 
Often  the  wild  horses  of  the  senses  burst  out  of  control 
of  the  charioteer  of  the  soul;  and  for  each  rushing  vio 
lence,  the  price  must  be  paid  in  pangs  of  the  body — until 
there  are  no  longer  lessons  of  the  flesh  to  be  learned,  and 
the  soul  puts  on  its  misery  no  more.  .  .  .  Routledge 
came  up  to  blow,  like  a  leviathan,  from  the  deeps  of 
reflection,  and  wondered  at  the  feverish  energy  of  his 
brain.  "  I  shall  be  analyzing  presently  the  properties 
which  go  into  the  crucible  for  the  making  of  a  prophet," 
he  declared. 

The  servant  had  brought  a  doctor,  but  it  was  mere 
formality.  Routledge  bent  over  the  dying  woman.  Her 
heart  filled  the  hut  with  its  pounding.  It  ran  swift  and 


The  Great  Frieze  Coat  157 

loud,  like  a  ship's  screw,  when  the  clutching  Pacific 
rollers  fall  away.  In  that  devouring  heat,  the  chill 
settled. 

"  Do  not  forget.  .  .  .  He  is  the  son  of  Madan 
Das,  and  I  am  his  mother " 

"  I  shall  not  forget,  good  mother,"  Routledge  whis 
pered.  "A  worthy  man  shall  take  care  of  him.  This, 
first  of  all,  shall  I  attend." 

*'  Madan  Das  was  a  worthy  man " 

The  rest  was  as  the  rattle  of  ripe  seeds  in  a  wind 
blown  pod.  .  .  .  Routledge  turned  his  face  from  the 
final  wrench.  There  was  a  foot-fall  in  the  sand,  and  a 
shadow  upon  the  threshold,  but  Routledge  raised  his  hand 
for  silence.  The  moment  of  all  life  in  the  flesh  when 
silence  is  dearest  is  the  last.  .  .  .  The  child  stirred 
and  opened  its  eyes — roused,  who  can  tell,  by  its  own 
needs  of  a  metaphysical  sympathy?  And  what  does  it 
matter?  The  man  covered  in  the  sheet  the  poor  body 
which  the  soul  had  spurned,  and  turned  to  feed  the  child 
again.  The  American  was  at  the  door. 

"  And  have  you  been  specializing  in  famine  at  first 
hand,  Mr.  Jasper  ?  "  Routledge  inquired. 

"  Yes,  and  I  see,  sir,  that  you  have  been  doing  more." 

"  The  task  came  to  me  this  morning.  A  little  touch 
of  motherhood  makes  the  whole  world  kin,  you  know. 
.  .  .  This  baby  seal  is  the  son  of  Madan  Das.  He  is 
sleepy,  having  ridden  all  night  bareback — and  the  bones 
of  his  mount  were  sharp." 

"  Allow  me  to  say,  rather  from  necessity  than  any 
notion  of  being  pleasant,"  Mr.  Jasper  observed  slowly, 
"  that  I  think  you  are  a  wonderful  man.  ...  I 
have  found  myself  weak  and  cowardly  and  full  of  strange 


158  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

sickness.  I  am  going  back  to  the  railway  filled  with  a 
great  dislike  for  myself.  The  things  which  I  find  to  do 
here,  and  want  to  do,  prove  a  physical  impossibility.  I 
want  to  leave  a  hundred  pounds  in  Rydamphur.  It  is 
but  a  makeshift  of  a  coward.  It  occurred  to  me  to  ask 
you  how  it  would  be  best  to  leave  the  money,  and  where." 

"  Don't  be  disturbed,  Mr.  Jasper,"  Routledge  said, 
struck  by  the  realness  of  the  other's  gloom.  "  I  know 
the  feeling — know  it  well.  A  white  man  is  not  drilled  in 
these  matters.  God,  I  have  been  ill,  too !  I  am  ill  now. 
See  the  soaps  and  water-basins  which  I  have  served  with 
my  ministrations — and  I  am  old  in  India.  It  is  the  weak 
ness  from  hunger  which  makes  the  people  a  prey  to  all  the 
atrocities  of  filth  and  disease.  First  famine,  then  plague. 
.  .  .  A  hundred  pounds — that  is  good  of  you.  I  know 
a  missionary  who  will  thank  God  directly  for  it — all  night 
on  his  knees — and  he  will  not  buy  a  can  of  butter  for 
himself.  I  will  lead  you  to  him  if  you  wish." 

They  passed  through  the  village.  The  English  were 
coming  with  the  bullock-carts,  and  the  people,  all  these 
who  could  crawl  out  of  their  huts,  were  gathered  in  the 
blazing  sunlight  on  the  public  threshing-floor.  Mr. 
Jasper  quickened  his  step  and  averted  his  face.  .  .  . 
Routledge  had  been  several  days  in  Rydamphur,  and  a 
guest  in  most  of  the  huts,  but  there  were  many  upon  the 
threshing-floor  now  (the  old  in  agony,  borne  there  by 
the  young;  loathsome  human  remnants  moving  upon 
the  sand)  that  he  had  not  seen  before.  It  profited  not  to 
look  deeply  into  that  harrowing  dream  of  hell,  in  the 
light  of  the  most  high  sun,  lest  the  spectacle  remain  in  the 
brain,  an  indissoluble  haunt. 


The  Great  Frieze  Coat  159 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Mr.  Jasper,"  Routledge  muttered. 
"  It  is  shocking  as  the  bottom  of  the  sea — with  the  waters 
drained  off.  It  is  the  carnal  mystery  of  a  famine." 

There  was  but  one  thing  left  in  Rydamphur  for 
Routledge  to  do.  It  concerned  the  servant  of  the  Rest 
House,  whom  he  had  found  good,  and  the  little  son  of 
Madan  Das. 

"  This  is  to  be  your  child,"  he  said  to  the  man. 
"  The  mother  is  dead,  and  the  others  of  the  family  lie 
dead  in  the  country.  I  am  leaving  Rydamphur  now,  but 
by  chance  I  shall  come  back.  You  shall  attend  the 
mother's  body — and  take  the  child  for  your  own.  It  is 
the  wish  of  the  very  holy  man  who  tarried  here  a  few 
days.  It  was  his  chela  who  carried  the  woman  in  from 
the  country  during  the  night.  It  is  also  my  wish,  and  I 
leave  you  money.  More  money  will  be  forthcoming  in 
due  time.  First  of  all,  I  want  you  to  buy  a  little  brass 
bowl,  which  shall  be  the  child's  own.  Remember  the 
name.  He  is  the  son  of  Madan  Das.  And  now  give  me 
your  name." 

It  was  done  in  order.  An  hour  after,  when  all  the 
village  was  attracted  to  the  threshing  floor,  and  the 
bullock-carts  were  creaking  in,  and  the  sweating,  harried 
Englishmen  were  pushing  back  the  natives,  lest  they  fall 
under  the  wheels,  Mr.  Jasper  perceived  the  man  who  had 
so  fascinated  him  set  out,  alone  and  without  conveyance, 
along  the  sandy  western  road  toward  the  railroad. 

It  was  a  night  late  in  October  when  Routledge 
reached  Calcutta,  where  he  was  forced  to  sink  deeply  into 
the  native  life  to  avoid  recognition.  With  two  months' 


160  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

files  of  the  Pioneer,  he  sat  down  to  study  the  premonitive 
mutterings  of  the  Russo-Japanese  war.  They  were  wide 
in  aim,  but  deep  with  meaning  for  the  man  who  had 
mastered  the  old  game  of  war.  The  point  which  inter 
ested  him  most  in  regard  to  this  inevitable  fracture  of  the 
world's  peace  was  not  brought  out  in  the  Pioneer.  Just 
how  much  did  the  awful  activity  of  one  Tyrone  patriot, 
Jerry  Cardinegh,  have  to  do  with  the  ever  bristling  nego 
tiations  between  Tokyo  and  St.  Petersburg?  ...  In 
the  light  of  the  present  developments,  the  Anglo-Japanese 
alliance  was  one  of  the  cleverest  figments  of  diplomacy 
in  the  history  of  national  craft.  Japan  was  a  fine  tool, 
with  a  keen  and  tempered  edge.  It  would  take  all  the 
brute  flesh  that  Russia  could  mass  in  Manchuria  to  blunt 
it.  Decidedly,  Russia  would  have  none  left  to  crumple 
the  borders  of  British  India.  Meanwhile,  England  had 
nothing  more  serious  to  do  than  to  collect  her  regular 
Indian  tributes,  attend  her  regular  Indian  famines,  and  to 
vent  from  time  to  time  a  world-wide  whoop  of  encourage 
ment  for  her  little  brown  brothers,  facing  the  Bear. 

"  That  reminds  me,"  Routledge  reflected  with  a  start, 
"  that  all  this  is  my  work.  I  took  it  from  Jerry 
Cardinegh." 

He  breathed  hard,  and  perused  again  the  long,  weary 
story  of  negotiations,  the  preliminary  conflict.  It  ap 
peared  that  Russia  recognized  Japan's  peculiar  interest  in 
Korea,  and  called  it  reasonable  for  her  to  take  charge  of 
4he  affairs  of  the  Korean  court.  .  .  .  "By  the  way," 
Routledge  mused  ironically,  "the  Anglo- Japanese  alliance 
was  hung  on  the  fact  that  Korea  was  to  be  preserved  an 
automatic  unit.  However,  the  Anglo- Japanese  alliance 
was  hung  in  haste."  ...  The  Czar  observed  that 


The  Great  Frieze  Coat  161 

he  had  a  peculiar  brotherly  regard  for  Manchuria, 
and  that  Japan  must  bear  in  mind  that  her  Korean  busi 
ness  must  remain  for  all  time  south  of  the  Yalu.  "  Don't 
cross  that  river,"  said  Nicholas.  .  .  .  Ominous 
courtesy,  rejections,  modifications,  felicitations,  and 
the  thunder  of  riveting  war-ships  in  each  navy-yard 
of  the  respective  Powers  involved.  Brute  boy,  Japan,  at 
a  white  heat  from  Hakodate  to  Nagasaki ;  Russia  sweetly 
ignoring  the  conflagration  and  sticking  for  Great  Peter's 
dream  for  a  port  in  the  Pacific. 

And  so  it  stood  when  Routledge  closed  his  last  Pioneer 
in  his  Calcutta  hiding-place,  and  embarked  European 
steerage  for  Shanghai.  Two  days  north  of  Hong  Kong, 
the  steamer  ran  into  the  first  breath  of  winter,  and 
Routledge  drew  out  the  great  frieze  coat  to  go  ashore  in 
the  Paris  of  China.  Far  out  on  the  Hankow  road,  he 
ensconced  himself  in  a  small  German  hostelry,  and  caught 
up  with  the  negotiations  through  the  successive  editions 
of  the  North  China  News.  Not  a  line  anywhere  regard 
ing  the  life  or  death  of  Jerry  Cardinegh. 

Closer  and  closer,  the  Powers  drew  about  to  hear  the 
final  back-talk  between  Russia  and  Japan.  The  latter 
said  that  she  would  establish  a  neutral  zone  along  the 
northern  Korean  frontier,  if  Russia  would  do  likewise  on 
the  southern  frontier  of  Manchuria.  Some  humorist  in 
England  observed  that  you  cannot  have  a  neutral  zone 
without  war;  and  the  correspondents  set  out  from  Eng 
land,  via  America,  where  they  picked  up  the  men  from 
New  York,  Chicago,  and  Three  Oaks — travelling  west  to 
the  Far  East.  At  this  point,  Routledge,  with  great 
secrecy,  made  possible  through  a  solid  friend  in  New 
York,  secured  credentials,  under  an  assumed  name,  for 
11 


162  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

free-lance  work  in  the  interests  of  the  World  News. 
Thus  passed  the  holidays.  The  first  month  of  1904  was 
remarkable  for  the  unexampled  tension  created  by  Japan 
burning  the  cables  for  Russia's  last  word. 

Routledge  thrilled  in  spite  of  himself.  He  felt  that 
this  was  to  be  his  last  service  and  the  biggest.  What  a 
farce  were  the  negotiations,  with  Japan  already  a-tramp 
with  soldiery  and  the  great  single-track  railroad  from. 
St.  Petersburg  to  Port  Arthur  groaning  with  troop- 
trains  ;  with  India  locked  tight  in  the  strong  white  British 
hand  for  at  least  another  decade ;  with  England  turned  to 
watch  her  Asiatic  agent  spitted  on  the  Czar's  rusty 
bayonets — what  a  farce,  indeed,  with  Russia  willing,  and 
Japan  determined,  for  war. 

Late  in  January,  and  a  snowy  twilight.  Routledge 
stood  for  a  moment  on  the  Bund  in  Shanghai.  He  was 
sailing  that  night  for  Chifu,  and  wondering  as  he  stood 
in  the  falling  dark,  his  face  concealed  in  the  high-collar, 
how  fared  Jerry  Cardinegh  in  the  crux  of  these  great 
affairs.  Was  he  dead — or  dead  in  brain  only?  Of 
Noreen — thoughts  of  Noreen  were  always  with  him. 

One  of  the  launches  of  an  Empress  liner  was  leaving 
the  Bund  in  a  few  minutes  for  the  ship  in  the  offing — 
her  nose  turned  to  Japan.  Routledge  was  thinking  that 
he  would  have  to  play  the  game  alone  now,  if  never 
before.  He  smiled  at  the  thought  of  what  the  boys  gath 
ering  at  the  Imperial  Hotel  in  Tokyo  would  do  if  he 
should  turn  up  among  them.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  felt 
a  man's  eyes  fixed  upon  him  from  the  right.  He  turned 
his  head  carelessly,  and  discovered  a  figure  marvelously 
like  Finacune's  stepping  overside  into  the  launch.  It 
disappeared  into  the  small  cabin.  Routledge  turned  his 


The  Great  Frieze  Coat  163 

back  to  the  launch  with  that  degraded,  shrunken  sensa 
tion  which  concealment  always  incited. 

"  They  would  murder  me,"  he  muttered  absently. 
"  I  must  swing  it  more  than  ever  alone — from  the  edges 
and  alone." 

A  woman's  hand  touched  the  sleeve  of  the  great 
frieze  coat,  and  Routledge  jerked  about  in  a  startled  way. 
Men  and  wars  were  obliterated  like  dry  leaves  in  a  flame. 
The  launch  whistled  a  last  time. 


TWELFTH  CHAPTER 

JOHNNY  BRODIE  OF  BOOKSTALLS  IS  INVITED  TO 

CHEER  STREET,  AND  BOLTS,  PERCEIVING  A 

CONSPIRACY  FORMED  AGAINST  HIM 

JERRY  CARDINEGH  experienced  a  very  swift  and 
remarkable  transition.  All  the  red-blooded  hatred  with 
which  he  had  executed  his  coup  in  India  was  drained 
from  the  man  sitting  in  London.  His  gigantic  scheme 
accomplished,  Cardinegh  withered  like  a  plant  overturned 
in  a  furrow.  Instead  of  facing  the  consequences  with 
the  same  iron  humor  that  he  had  faced  the  wars  of  his 
time — as  he  had  planned  for  months,  in  the  event  of  dis 
covery — his  great  mad  zeal  had  burned  him  out.  He 
found  himself  old,  run-down,  pitiful,  hungering  for  peace, 
when  his  young  Messiah  had  come — praying  for  the 
imperial  stimulus  of  English  hatred  in  order  to  write  a 
great  book  of  the  craft.  In  his  weakness  and  in  the  power 
ful  attraction  of  home  and  Noreen,  Cardinegh  had  not 
analyzed  the  idea  seized  at  random  by  Routledge.  Later 
he  was  incapable.  Always  the  young  man  had  been 
strange  in  his  ways  and  startling  in  his  achievements. 
Jerry  had  sensed  the  crush  of  this  thing  which  the  other 
demanded  for  a  stimulant.  Vaguely,  the  old  man  pictured 
from  time  to  time  the  "  mystic  of  the  wars  "  sunk  and 
steeped  somewhere  in  India,  turning  out  stupendous  nar 
ratives  under  the  goad  of  secrecy  and  peril. 

Even  the  swiftest  physical  changes  are  more  or  less 
imperceptible  to  the  victim,  whose  body  is  gently  numbed, 
and  mind  shadowed  by  a  merciful  cloud.  The  veteran 

164 


Johnny  Brodie  of  Bookstalls  165 

felt  his  years,  and  talked  much  of  their  weight,  but  he 
alone  was  incapable  of  perceiving  the  extent  of  his  ruin. 
And  what  desperate  irony  was  there  in  the  trick  which 
Nature  played  upon  him !  His  brain  held  fast  to  the 
exciting  minutiae  of  Plevna,  and  the  elder  services,  but 
lost  entirely  his  latest  and  crowning  strategy  to  encom 
pass  British  disaster.  He  had  conceived  and  carried  out 
a  plan  to  force  a  Russo-Indian  alliance  against  England — 
and  had  practically  forgotten  it.  More  than  that,  the  fact 
that  his  work  had  been  foiled  by  England's  counter- 
alliance  with  Japan  seemed  scarcely  to  touch  his  mind 
after  his  last  talk  with  Routledge.  Memory  served  him 
mightily  from  her  treasures  of  old  actions,  but  the  record 
of  his  awful  lone  war  and  its  dreams  had  been  writ  in 
water. 

Cardinegh  gradually  grew  more  and  more  content  as 
the  silence  from  abroad  endured  and  his  own  forces 
failed.  Many  Londoners  came  to  pay  him  homage;  and 
with  a  single  glance,  the  visitors  understood  that  it  were 
wiser  to  talk  of  El  Obeid  and  the  Chinese  Gordon  rather 
than  of  the  new  century.  So  the  old  campaigner,  busy 
with  his  callers,  his  pipes  and  Latakia  mixtures,  his 
whiskies,  white  and  red,  finally  came  to  forget  for  weeks 
at  a  time  that  the  honor  of  his  days  was  not  his  own. 

Only  occasionally,  between  long  periods  of  serenity, 
there  would  come  a  stirring  tumult  to  his  brain.  At  such 
times  he  was  frightened  and  speechless.  Nameless  fears 
pulsated  through  him  like  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  tempest. 
Once  when  the  old  man  thought  he  was  alone,  Noreen 
heard  him  mutter  at  the  fireside :  "  He's  lost  in  India 
somewhere — working  and  brooding,  the  young  devil,— 
but  war  will  bring  him  out  of  his  lair." 


166  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

He  was  as  usual  the  next  morning.  Had  Noreen  not 
been  altogether  in  the  dark  in  regard  to  the  specific 
charge  against  Routledge,  she  could  have  put  this  and 
other  fragments  together  into  a  rough  form  of  truth. 
The  few  who  knew  all,  imparted  nothing.  To  the  rest, 
the  name  of  Routledge  was  attached  to  a  certain  unspeak 
able  atrocity,  and  was  thus  whispered  wherever  English 
men  roved  and  strived.  The  man's  mysterious  figure 
had  been  in  the  London  press  for  years.  England  makes 
much  of  her  correspondents,  and  Routledge,  the  Review 
man,  had  aroused  comment  from  Auckland  to  Winnipeg 
— familiar  comment,  like  the  record  of  a  general.  A 
curse  had  fallen  upon  the  name  now,  and  it  was  none  the 
less  heinous  because  the  reason,  so  far  as  the  multitude 
was  concerned,  was  a  historical  mystery,  Articles  like 
Finacune's  from  the  field  in  Bhurpal  had  given  English 
men  everywhere  an  idea  of  the  personality  of  this  arch 
enemy;  and  the  fact  that  Routledge  was  still  alive,  and 
miraculously  unpunished,  was  a  covert  challenge  to  the 
British  around  the  world.  .  .  .  Noreen  despaired  of 
learning  the  truth.  The  merest  mention  of  the  subject 
harrowed  and  discountenanced  her  father,  and  netted  no 
revelation  whatsoever. 

Hers  were  stern,  hard-checked  days,  full  of  heart- 
hunger.  It  seemed  to  her  sometimes  as  if  her  individu 
ality  must  perish  in  the  midst  of  this  interminable  system 
of  agonies.  That  last  hour  in  the  carriage  had  left  her 
thrilling,  burning.  She  wished  she  had  said  even  more 
to  show  her  loyalty.  .  .  .  She  thought  of  Routledge 
out  on  God's  great  windy  seas — always  alone,  always  on 
deck  in  storms  that  drove  others  below;  she  thought  of 
him  moving  in  the  hidden  slums  of  India,  native  of  the 


Johnny  Brodie  of  Bookstalls  167 

natives,  eternally  shadowed  from  his  kind — alone,  wasted, 
accursed.  .  .  .  Once — it  was  the  same  night  that  he 
had  slipped  from  a  noose  in  the  house  at  Madras — she 
woke  with  a  scream  to  find  that  it  was  only  a  dream — 
that  he  was  being  murdered.  Yet  she  was  terrified  for 
days,  as  only  one  can  be  terrified  whose  brain  is  fine 
enough  to  respond  to  the  immaterial  currents,  molding 
and  weaving  behind  all  scenes  and  things. 

Often  it  came  to  her,  "  This  is  my  battle.  I  must 
fight  it  cleanly  and  without  a  cry.  It  is  hard  for  him  and 
hard  for  me — as  much  as  we  can  bear.  Only  Routledge- 
san  and  I  can  know  how  hard — and  God,  who  measures 
our  strength.  But  I  shall  see  him  again.  I  shall  see  him 
again.  /  shall  see  him  again." 

Beyond  this,  she  could  never  go  in  coherent  thinking. 
In  calm  moments,  and  without  any  warning,  there  would 
come  to  her  just  a  glimpse  beyond,  but  never  by  delib 
erately  forcing  her  thoughts.  What  glimpses  they  were, 
winged,  marvelous, — of  a  bewildering  intensity  past  the 
handling  of  common  faculties.  ...  A  great,  strong- 
souled  woman,  fashioned  with  the  beauty  of  angels,  and 
inspired  with  a  love  of  the  kind  that  only  the  dreamers 
can  know  in  spirit.  .  .  .  And  she  held  fast  to  what 
was  left  of  her  father,  loved  him,  nor  allowed  the 
vision  of  crossing  the  world  to  her  lover  to  militate 
against  the  work  of  the  hour.  ...  As  for  Routledge 
degraded,  Routledge-san  doing  a  shameful  thing — this 
was  unthinkable,  a  masterpiece  of  evil,  one  of  the  world's 
four-dimension  errors,  which  held  him  outcast  in  a 
wilderness  where  her  soul  cried  nightly  to  be. 

Autumn  of  the  following  year,  and  still  Jerry  Cardi- 
negh  sat  in  the  little  rooms  in  Cheer  Street,  his  daughter 


168  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

ministering.  .  .  .  Noreen  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
Bookstalls.  It  was  a  day  reserved  from  summer,  and 
she  had  waited  until  afternoon  when  her  father  napped. 
All  things  were  made  ready  for  his  comfort  when  he 
awakened,  and  she  had  the  hours.  Her  carriage  turned 
into  the  rutty,  cobble-paved  road,  narrow  and  eternally 
jammed.  The  upper  front  windows  of  the  old  house 
were  closely  curtained.  .  .  .  She  had  never  been  up 
there,  though  once  she  had  asked  to  go.  .  .  .  Her 
father  and  others  had  told  her  of  the  wanderer's  trophy- 
room,  which  Routledge  kept  from  year  to  year  and  occu 
pied  so  seldom.  How  fared  the  master  in  this 
hour?  .  .  . 

The  street  boy  who  had  been  with  Routledge  that 
last  morning  was  passing  swiftly,  carrying  the  wares  of 
a  pastry-cook  upon  a  tray.  He  had  the  look  of  one  who 
was  trusted  and  prospering.  She  called  and  he  ran 
forward,  but  halted  in  excitement. 

"  Why,  you  are  the  Boy !  "  she  declared  joyfully. 

His  answer  was  equally  engaging :  "  Has  the  Man 
come  back  ?  " 

"Won't  you  come  into  the  carriage  with  me — so  we 
can  talk  about  the  Man  ?  "  she  asked. 

Talking  about  the  Man  was  desirable  but  forbidden. 
Another  party  had  wished  to  talk  about  the  Man.  It 
was  but  a  moment  after  the  Man  had  left  him,  in  the 
carriage  of  this  woman.  A  stranger  had  touched  his 
arm,  asked  queer  questions  in  a  clumsy,  laughing  way, 
stood  treat  variously,  and  bored  for  information  in  the 
most  startling  and  unexpected  fashion,  always  laughing. 
Altogether  that  had  been  a  forenoon  which  made  him 
damp  to  remember.  Night  after  night,  in  the  little  hall- 


, 

Johnny  Brodie  of  Book^gl  169 


bedroom,  he  had  gone  over  every  word  whic^He  stranger 
had  extracted.  He  felt  that  the  Man  would  have  been 
proud  of  him,  but  there  had  been  several  narrow  squeaks. 
.  .  .  As  for  the  Man,  Johnny  Brodie  had  built  his 
future  and  his  God-stuff  about  Him.  It  wasn't  alto 
gether  a  matter  of  clothes  and  grub  and  a  room  of  his 
own.  There  was  something  deeper  and  bigger  than 
that.  .  .  .  And  this  woman — her  chances  were  slim 
about  getting  anything  out  of  him  about  the  Man. 

"  I  got  these  'ere  torts  to  carry  ?  "  he  said.  "  Has 
the  Man  come  back  ?  " 

"  No,  but  we'll  talk  about  him — when  you  are  through 
with  your  work." 

"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  'im." 

"  Oh,  but  it's  enough  that  you  know  him — and  are 
fond  of  him.  How  long  will  you  be  busy  ?  " 

"  Till  dark." 

"  Oh,  dear !  But  you  will  come  to  my  house  after 
that,  won't  you,  Boy?  I'll  have  a  good  supper  for  you — 
and  some  things  to  take  away.  You'll  be  glad  if  you 
come.  .  .  .  Won't  you  come,  Boy  ? " 

Five  minutes  later,  Johnny  stared  at  the  receding 
carriage  and  at  the  money  in  his  hand.  He  had  promised 
to  go  to  Cheer  Street  that  evening  when  his  work  was 
done.  How  it  came  about,  was  one  of  those  things  which 
he  must  figure  out  in  silence  and  darkness.  Certainly 
he  had  not  intended  to  go.  Evidently  she  was  one  of 
the  Man's  possessions,  and  what  a  way  she  had  with 
her !  .  .  .  Everything  about  the  Man  was  right.  He 
was  all  that  a  man  could  and  should  be.  More  would 
be  superfluous  and  distasteful.  ...  It  had  looked 
as  if  the  Man  had  wanted  to  be  alone  that  morning, 


170  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

when  this  woman  had  borne  him  away  in  the  carriage. 
Johnny  had  never  quite  forgiven  her  for  that.  Possibly 
the  Man  might  have  had  more  to  say  to  him  if  she  hadn't 
come.  .  .  .  She  wanted  to  go  up  into  the  Room, 
but  the  Man  hadn't  allowed  that.  .  .  . 

"  'E  took  me  in,  an'  not  'er !  "  he  mused  with  sudden 
amazement. 

The  long-locked  lodging — that  Superlative  Place! 
.  .  .  Johnny  had  a  pet  dream.  He  was  back  on  the 
stairs,  and  the  Man  came  and  carried  him  up  into  that 
place  of  kingliest  attraction.  Those  were  rooms  like  a 
man  ought  to  have — shields,  guns,  knives,  saddles,  tufts 
of  hair  (certainly  scalps),  chain-shirts,  and  shirts  with 
tattoo-marks  all  over;  and  there  was  one  saddle,  with 
mud  still  on  the  stirrups,  sorrel  hair  on  the  cinch,  and 
a  horsy  smell.  .  .  .  Johnny  jerked  himself  out  of  his 
delectable  memories. 

"  I'll  go,"  he  muttered ;  "  but  she  needn't  think  she'll 
'ear  anything  about  'im  from  me." 

Noreen  returned  to  Cheer  Street  in  the  twilight, 
troubled  by  the  thought  that  there  was  to  be  company  in 
the  evening.  She  had  forgotten,  and  wanted  the  whole 
time  with  the  boy.  .  .  .  He  had  passed  the  night  in 
the  lodgings  with  Routledge — the  very  hours  which  had 
made  an  outcast  of  her  lover.  What  might  the  boy  not 
have  heard?  At  least  he  knew  the  Man — one  soul  in 
London  who  knew  Routledge  and  did  not  seek  to  crush 
him. 

Her  father  regarded  her  hungrily  as  she  entered. 

"  You've  been  gone  long,  Noreen,"  he  said.  "  Tis  a 
queer  thing  that  comes  over  a  man  with  the  years,  deere. 


Johnny  Brodie  of  Bookstalls  171 

I  was  thinking  this  afternoon  of  going  away  for  a  year— • 
the  thought  of  it!  It's  all  gone  from  me.  Old  Jerry  is 
off  to  the  wars  no  more,  unless  they  furnish  portable 
pavilions  for  the  women  of  the  correspondents." 

She  knew  that  his  liveliness  was  unnatural,  but  so 
much  of  her  work  was  mere  service  for  the  tragic  efface- 
ment  of  a  loved  one,  that  she  brightened  responsively  to 
his  .slightest  mental  activity.  Dinner  was  nearly  over 
when  the  door-bell  rang.  Noreen  left  her  father  at  the 
table  and  admitted  Johnny  Brodie,  leading  him  into  the 
sitting-room. 

He  removed  his  cap  carefully,  uncovering  a  noble 
achievement  of  water,  wrought  against  gritty  odds,  with 
a  certain  treasured  pair  of  military  brushes.  The  cap 
was  carelessly  stuck  in  his  pocket.  His  shoes — but  the 
blacking  of  Bookstalls  and  many  other  roads  had  the 
start  of  months  and  asserted  itself  before  the  drying  fire 
above  the  recent  veneer  of  the  stranger  brand.  Johnny 
Brodie  looked  captured  and  uncomfortable,  so  that 
Noreen  despaired  to  win  him.  Had  he  been  older  or 
younger,  she  could  not  have  failed;  but  there  he  sat,  a 
male  creature  all  deformed  by  years  and  emotions,  pre 
cocities  and  vacuities — a  stained  and  handicapped  little 
nobleman,  all  boy,  and  all  to  the  good. 

"  We  haven't  heard  from  the  Man,  either,  Johnny," 
fehe  said.  "  We  are  terribly  worried  about  him  and 
awfully  interested.  I  know  he  was  very  fond  of  you, 
and  I  hoped  you  could  tell  us  something  about  him.  Did 
you  know  him  long?" 

"  Nope."  The  boy  wondered  who  else  was  included 
in  the  "we." 

"But  that  morning  you  seemed  to  have  such  a  fine 


172  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

and  complete  understanding.  Did  you  often  spend  a 
night  with  him  ?  " 

"Nope.  We  was  fren's,  though.  'E's  the  right  sort. 
Gives  me  a  bloomin'  Tommy's  harmy  blanket  to  sleep  in, 
and  wen  I  goes  to  get  into  me  boots — they're  filled  wit 
bobs  an'  tanners.  I  looks  up,  an'  e's  grinnin' —  as  if  'e 
didn't  know  as  to  'ow  they  got  there." 

It  was  all  replenishment  to  her  veins.  "  And  didn't 
he  go  to  sleep  that  night,  Johnny  ?  "  she  asked  softly. 

"  'Ow  should  I  know  ?  "  he  demanded  innocently. 

"  I  thought  maybe  you'd  know.  He  told  me — that 
is,  I  know  he  had  a  visitor  besides  you  that  night." 

Manifestly  this  would  never  do.  Noreen  felt  uncom 
fortable  in  her  probing.  She  must  make  him  see  how 
important  anything  he  might  say  would  be  not  only  to 
her,  but  to  the  Man.  ...  As  for  what  the  boy  knew, 
an  analyst,  or,  better,  an  alienist,  would  be  necessary  to 
piece  into  a  garment  of  reason  his  poor  little  patches  of 
understanding,  in  regard  to  what  he  had  heard  that 
night — names  of  men  and  places  and  deeds  outside 
of  Bookstalls.  The  fact  that  Johnny  Brodie  did  not 
understand,  was  no  reason  why  he  should  uncover  his 
patches  to  this  woman  who  understood  so  much.  He 
was  a  little  afraid  of  her,  and  not  a  little  sorry  that  he 
had  come.  He  felt,  in  spite  of  himself,  that  his  face 
was  telling  her  that  he  knew  a  great  deal  about  that  night. 
He  squirmed. 

Noreen  sensed  many  of  his  mental  operations,  arosev 
and  knelt  before  him,  her  elbows  upon  his  knees,  and 
looked  up  into  his  face. 

"  Boy,"  she  whispered,  "  you  are  very  good  and  dear 
to  me  for  trying  to  keep  his  secrets.  He  is  a  great  and 


Johnny  Brodie  of  Bookstalls  173 

good  man,  who  means  very  much  to  you  and  to  me.  He 
is  doing  for  some  one  else  (who  cannot  love  him  as  you 
and  I  do)  a  great  thing  and  a  hard  thing,  which  keeps 
him  away  from  us.  So  long  as  the  secret  is  kept,  Boy, 
he  will  have  to  stay  away,  but  if  we  knew  the  secret  we 
could  bring  him  back  to  us  and  be  very  happy.  .  .  . 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  that  you  know,  all  that  you 
heajd  that  night  while  the  visitor  was  there — but  before 
you  do  you  must  understand  that  you  are  doing  only 
good  for  him.  His  good,  his  welfare,  is  life  and  death 
to  me.  I  love  this  man,  Johnny  Brodie,  I  think  even 
better  than  you  do.  Won't  you  help  me  to  bring  him 
back?" 

His  eyes  were  wide  with  temptation.  He  longed 
to  consult  her  about  the  laughing  stranger  who  had 
pumped  him.  Many  things  had  happened  to  him  in 
twelve  flying,  graceless  years,  but  nothing  like  this. 
Never  would  come  another  moment  like  this — with  the 
woman,  whom  Bookstalls  had  gasped  at  the  sight  of, 
kneeling  before  him.  The  fate  of  a  city  might  well 
have  wavered  in  the  balance  before  the  pleading  of 
such  a  woman.  He  had  a  premonitive  sense  that 
this  moment  would  become  more  significant  the  older 
he  grew.  She  overturned  half  his  resistance  with  the 
single  fact  of  sharing  with  him  the  possession  of  the 
Man  and  acknowledging  his  almost  co-equal  rights  in 
all  that  pertained.  It  was  not  her  interest,  but  their 
interest.  .  .  .  And  then — the  seething  curiosity  for 
months — this  woman  could  tell  him  why  the  Man  wanted 
the  Hate  of  London !  There  could  be  no  mistake  about 
this  last.  The  Man  had  begged  for  it  in  many  ways  and 
in  such  language  as  was  never  heard  in  Bookstalls, 


174  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

except  in  the  Socialist's  Hall.  How  could  one  old  man, 
all  scarred  and  shot  up,  give  him  the  Hate  of  London? 

At  this  instant  Jerry  Cardinegh  opened  the  door  from 
the  dining-room.  Noreen  felt  the  little  body  turn  rigid 
under  her  hands  and  saw  the  thin  jaw  tighten.  As  she 
turned  hastily  to  her  father,  she  heard  Johnny  Brodie's 
voice — the  voice  of  one  who  has  triumphed  over 
temptation : 

"  Ask  'im !    Wot  yer  askin'  me  fer — wen  'e  knows  ?  " 

She  hurried  to  lead  her  father  back  into  the  dining- 
room,  but  he  could  not  stir.  His  eyes  had  fixed  them 
selves  upon  the  boy,  and  seemed  to  be  draining  from 
him  some  deadly  poison.  His  liquor  betrayed  him,  as 
it  ever  betrays  the  old  and  the  fallen.  The  tissue  it  had 
sustained  collapsed  in  his  veins  and  the  low  light  left 
his  brain.  Only  there  remained  horror  as  of  a  basilisk 
upon  his  face.  His  bright,  staring  eyes  had  a  look  of 
isolation  in  the  midst  of  altered  ashen  features. 

It  was  too  much  for  Johnny  Brodie — this  quick  for 
mation  of  havoc  on  the  face  that  had  been  florid  and 
smiling.  Moreover,  he  saw  the  conspiracy  against  him 
in  the  woman  and  the  old  man.  He  clapped  his  hand 
to  his  pocket — the  cap  was  where  it  belonged — bolted 
into  the  hall  and  down  the  stairs. 

Noreen's  lips  formed  to  call  his  name,  but  the  look 
of  her  father  forbade.  She  heard  the  slam  of  the  front 
door. 


THIRTEENTH  CHAPTER 

JERRY  CARDINEGH  OFFERS  A  TOAST  TO  THE  OUT- 

CAST— A  TOAST  HE  IS  COMPELLED 

TO  DRINK  ALONE 

THERE  was  but  one  face  in  the  world — the  face  of 
the  boy  who  had  so  startled  Jerry  Cardinegh  in  Rout- 
ledge's  rooms  their  last  night  together — that  could  have 
brought  to  the  old  man  as  now  the  falsity  of  his  posi 
tion,  the  shame  of  his  silence,  and  the  horrid  closing  of 
his  life.  Routledge  himself  could  not  have  done  this, 
for  he  would  have  returned  with  a  smile  and  a  grip  of 
the  hand.  Cardinegh  had  received  in  full  voltage  the 
galvanism  Routledge  had  craved  as  a  boon.  He  tried 
to  speak,  but  the  sound  in  his  throat  was  like  dice 
shaking  in  a  leather  box.  He  tried  again  unavailingly, 
and  sank  into  a  chair.  Noreen  brought  the  whiskey. 

"  Why,  father,  it  was  just  a  little  boy  whom  Rout- 
ledge-san  knew,"  she  soothed.  "  I  found  him  on  the 
street  to-day,  and  asked  him  to  come  to  see  us  to-night — 
because  he  had  known  Routledge-san." 

For  an  hour  he  sat  quietly,  and  neither  spoke. 

The  bell  rang.  Noreen  steeled  herself  to  meet  a 
party  of  correspondents  who  had  promised  to  drop  in 
upon  Jerry  that  night.  The  old  king  was  not  forgotten 
by  the  princes  of  the  craft,  and  his  daughter  was 
unforgettable. 

"  Are  you  well  enough  to  see  the  boys,  father  ?  " 

In  the  past  hour  the  old  man  had  felt  the  fear  of 
his  daughter's  presence,  a  deadly  fear  of  questions.  A 

175 


176  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

sort  of  hopeless  idea  came  to  him — that  men  in  the  room 
would  be  a  defense — until  he  was  himself  again. 

"  Of  course.  Bring  them  in.  ...  The  little 

chap ...  I  was  gripped  of  a  sudden.  .  .  . 

It's  an  old  dog  at  best,  I  am,  deere ! " 

Finacune,  as  handsome  as  a  young  rose-vine  in  his 
evening  wear;  the  heavy,  panting  Trollope,  who  put  on 
weight  prodigiously  between  wars ;  Feeney,  with  his 
look  of  gloom,  as  if  a  doom-song  were  forever  chanting 
in  his  brain;  and  young  Benton  Day,  of  slight  but  very 
promising  service,  the  man  who  was  to  take  Routledge's 
place  on  the  Review  in  the  event  of  war — these  filled  the 
Cheer  Street  sitting-room  with  brisk  affairs.  Noreen's 
heart  was  in  the  dark  with  the  little  boy  fleeing  back  to 
Bookstalls  through  the  noisy  October  night.  Old  Jerry 
was  shaken  up  and  embraced.  There  was  to  be  a  full 
gathering  of  war-scribes  at  Tetley's  later,  to  discuss  the 
Russian  reply  to  certain  Japanese  proposals  received  by 
cable  in  the  afternoon.  The  dean  was  invited  to  preside. 
Noreen  saw  the  pained  look  in  the  eyes  of  Finacune  as 
he  relaxed  her  father's  hand. 

"  I'll  not  go,"  said  Jerry.  "  I  drink  enough  at  home, 
sure.  Did  you  say  Russia  has  been  talking  back — though 
it's  little  interest  I  have  in  rumors  of  war?  It's  a  boy's 
work." 

"The  Czar  says  Japan  may  run  Korea,  but  as  for 
Manchuria  it  is,  '  Hands  off,  Brownie/  "  said  Finacune. 

"  Which  means "  Trollope  began. 

"  The  same  old  tie-up,"  added  Finacune.  "  Only 
•closer  to  the  cutting.  Cable  to  the  Pan- Anglo  this 
afternoon  declares  that  Japan  has  already  granted  the 
inevitability  of  war." 


A  Toast,  to  the  Outcast  177 

"  Russia  suggests,"  Benton  Day  observed  carefully, 
"  that  Japan  offer  no  military  demonstration  in  Korea 
from  the  Yalu  down  to  40°.  Japan  says  in  reply  that 
she  must  have  a  similar  zone  of  gunless  activity,  then, 
north  of  the  Yalu." 

"  And  the  fact  is,"  said  Feeney,  "  they'll  be  shooting 
at  each  other  from  bank  to  bank  before  the  ice  is  out 
in  the  spring." 

**  It's  a  theory  of  mine,"  Trollope  offered,  "  that 
Japan  will  sink  a  Russian  battleship  or  blow  up  a  Russian 
troop-train,  and  then  observe  playfully  that  further  nego 
tiations  are  uncalled-for." 

Jerry  was  staring  at  the  carpet,  apparently  in  deep 
thought.  Noreen  was  close  to  Finacune. 

"  Don't  ask  him  again  to  go  to  Tetley's  with  you 
to-night,"  she  whispered.  "  He  is  far  from  well." 

"  I  thought  it  would  cheer  him  up — to  preside  over 
an  old-fashioned  session  of  prayer  for  action." 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  father  now  stared  about 
from  face  to  face  and  finally  fixed  upon  her  the  nervous 
smile. 

"  There's  a  deere,"  he  said,  "  run  and  see  if  the 
dinner  things  are  cleared  away.  We  must  get  about  the 
board — for  a  toast  to  the  work  ahead.  .  .  .  Come, 
boys,  to  the  dining-room." 

They  obeyed  with  enthusiasm.  Glasses  and  things 
were  brought  by  Noreen.  Jerry  sat  rigid  at  the  head, 
perspiration  upon  his  brow,  the  struggle  for  light  to 
think  by  in  his  brain.  The  men  felt  the  strain,  and 
pitied  the  woman. 

"  And  what  does  England  do  in  all  this  ?  "  Cardinegh 
asked  huskily,  after  a  painful  pause. 
12 


178  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Old  Feeney  was  nearest  the  dean.  He  dropped  his 
hand  upon  the  other's  arm  in  a  quiet  way.  "  England 
boosts  for  Japan,  Jerry,"  he  replied.  All  were  eager  to 
relieve  the  strain  by  a  detailed  discussion  on  any  sub 
ject,  but  the  dean  renewed: 

"  And  is  all  quiet  in  India  ?  " 

"  Quiet  as  the  '  orchard  lands  of  long  ago/ "  said 
Finacune. 

There  was  something  in  the  old  man's  voice  which 
suggested  to  Noreen  the  long  forgotten  passion — so  out 
of  place  here.  She  trembled  lest  he  should  prove  unable 
to  handle  himself. 

"  England "  Cardinegh  rumbled  the  name.  It  was 

as  if  he  were  fighting  for  a  grasp  upon  all  that  the 
gigantic  word  had  meant  to  him.  "  England  ought  to 
be  down  there  fighting  the  Czar  on  the  British-Indian 
border — not  on  the  Yalu." 

It  was  clear  to  all  why  England  was  not  embroiled 
with  Russia — the  Anglo- Japanese  alliance — save  to  the 
old  man  who  should  have  known  best.  The  truth 
thundered  now  in  the  clouds  of  his  brain,  but  he  could  not 
interpret.  Nobody  spoke,  for  the  dean's  hand  was  raised 
to  hold  the  attention.  The  gesture  was  a  pitiful  attempt 
to  assist  him  to  concentrate.  He  faltered  helplessly,  and 
finally  uttered  the  words  nearest  his  lips: 

"  Finacune,  the  florid, — you're  for  the  Word  as 
usual?" 

They  all  breathed  again.  The  old  man  had  found 
a  lead. 

"Always  for  the  Word,  Jerry — I  write  war  for  the 
skirt-departments  of  London." 


A  Toasi  to  the  Outcast  179 

"And  you,  Blue  Boar — for  the  Examiner?"  he 
demanded  of  Trollope. 

"  The  same." 

"  And  Benton  Day — you "  Cardinegh's  expres 
sion  suddenly  became  single-pointed.  Here  were  break 
ers  again. 

"  It's  not  rightly  settled,  sir.  I've  got  lines  out 
severally.  I  really  do  want  to  go." 

"  Then  Dartmore  didn't  call  you  to  the  Review  yet?  " 

"  I  did  speak  with  Dartmore,"  said  Day.  "  Things 
are  not  altogether  settled,  though." 

Jerry  regarded  him  for  a  second,  as  if  to  say,  "  I'll 
get  back  to  you,  young  man,  when  I  am  through  with 
this  peroration." 

"  And,  Bingley,  the  '  Horse-killer  '  ?  "  he  resumed. 

"  Goes  out  for  the  Thames,  as  usual.  There's  a  lad 
that  means  to  make  us  all  sweat,"  Finacune  said  thought 
fully. 

"  Feeney — you  old  were-wolf — you've  been  scratch 
ing  old  Mother  Earth  in  the  raw  places — almost  as  long 
as  I  have.  What  are  you  out  for  this  time  ?  " 

Feeney  hesitated,  and  Trollope  dragged  out  the 
answer :  "  All  kinds  of  berths  for  Feeney.  The  Thames 
will  put  out  a  dispatch-boat  which  he  can  command  if 
he  likes.  The  Pan- Anglo  wants  him  for  the  Russian 
end.  Also  he's  got  an  offer  to  follow  the  Japanese. 
Feeney  told  me  more  about  the  Yalu  country,  and  that 
new  cartridge-belt  of  creation,  while  we  were  walking 
over  here  to-night — red-beard  bandits,  Russian  grand 
dukes,  Japanese  spies,  with  queues,  who  have  been 
mapping  Manchuria  for  ten  years — than  any  white  man 
has  a  right  to  know." 


180  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

The  fact  was  that  old  Feeney  had  about  closed  to 
go  out  for  the  Witness,  which  Jerry  had  left  open. 

"  There's  no  need  of  asking  about  Talliaferro," 
Cardinegh  said  impatiently. 

"  No,  Talliaferro  is  Peter  Pellen's  '  Excalibur,'  as 
usual;  and  will  set  out  on  schedule  for  the  Yalu  or  the 
Gugger — wherever  the  fronts  meet." 

"  And  the  Witness?  "  Jerry  said,  clearing  his  throat. 
His  thoughts  were  like  birds  starting  up  in  the  dusk, 
clots  of  night  without  name  and  form. 

Finacune  arose  and  filled  the  breech.  "  The  Witness 
awaits  the  word  of  the  greatest  of  us  all — our  dean, 
Jerry  Cardinegh.  I  propose  now  a  drink  to  him  stand 
ing — to  the  greatest  of  our  kind !  " 

Personal  vanity  had  never  fallen  into  the  senility  of 
the  Irishman,  but  he  arose  with  the  others,  and  his 
face  caught  up  an  old  wild  look  familiar  to  every  one 
in  the  room,  as  he  raised  his  hand  to  speak: 

"  Let  us  drink  to  the  greatest  of  us  all,  as  you  say, — 
not  to  the  decayed  correspondent  which  the  Witness  does 
not  wait  for."  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  sudden  memory 
of  the  windy  night  in  Bhurpal.  "  Let  us  drink  to  the 
greatest  of  us  all — '  the  man  whom  the  gods  formed  for 
a  war-correspondent — or  a  spy,  as  you  like — whom  they 
tempered  in  hell's  fire  and  holy  water ' — drink  to  Cosmo 
Routledge,  already  afield !  " 

The  old  man  did  not  note  the  suppressed  disorder, 
nor  the  dawn  of  joy  on  the  face  of  his  daughter. 

"  I  remember  he  called  me  the  '  damaged  archangel  * 
that  night,"  he  added  softly,  and  turned  to  Benton  Day: 
"  God  be  with  him  this  night — and  with  you,  too,  lad — • 
for  you'll  need  Him — to  take  his  place." 


A  Toast  to  the  Outcast  181 

Jerry  drank  ceremoniously  and  alone,  but  there  was 
a  fuller  tribute  than  any  emptied  glass  ever  tokened — 
in  the  brimming  eyes  of  Noreen.  .  .  .  The  boys 
were  in  the  hall. 

"  I'm  going — not  to  war,  lads — but  to  bed,"  Cardi- 
negh  said,  and  presently  called  after  them  at  the  door: 
"  May  the  patchwork  for  peace  fail  to  cover  the  knees 
of  the  nations !  " 

Noreen  was  alone.  Her  brain,  sensitive  from  weari 
ness  and  wounds,  moved  swiftly,  restlessly.  She  knew 
at  this  moment  the  correspondents  would  be  discussing 
the  phases  of  her  father's  madness — whispering  at 
Tetley's  of  the  fall  of  the  chieftain.  Later,  at  the  ban 
quet-table,  when  the  wines  swept  away  all  lesser  regards, 
they  would  no  longer  whisper.  .  .  .  These  men 
were  her  friends  all.  Not  one  would  have  hesitated  to 
serve  her  well  in  any  need.  She  did  not  want  to  do 
them  an  injustice;  and  yet  there  was  something  in  their 
minds  that  was  stinging  and  foreign  now.  The  cause  was 
in  her  own  mind,  and  she  realized  it.  They  were  big 
among  men,  big  among  their  kind,  honorable  and  gen 
uine,  but  it  was  not  in  human  reason  for  them  to  share 
her  immutable  trust,  any  more  than  they  could  share 
the  feminine  outpouring  of  her  heart  for  the  man  afield. 
Also  she  knew  that  there  were  few  things  in  this  world 
that  Routledge  could  have  done  wicked  enough  to  shake 
these  men  so  utterly  from  allegiance  to  him.  He  had 
been  to  them  a  mystical  attraction  of  virtue,  as  he  was 
now  in  their  eyes  the  imperator  among  criminals. 

She  understood  something  of  what  her  father  had 
passed  through  in  the  recent  hours.  The  sight  of  the 
Bookstalls  boy  had  withered  him  like  some  disordered 


Routledge  Rides  Alone 

ghost;  and  yet,  to  her,  there  was  a  greater  tragedy  in 
watching  her  father  try  to  hold  his  old  place  as  chief  at 
the  table  of  war  men.  He  had  not  lost  that  king-torture 
of  consciousness  which  showed  him  that  he  was  not  as  he 
had  been.  His  struggle  to  cast  out  the  abiding  fatuities, 
and  to  regain  his  old  high  place  of  mental  activity,  was 
terrible  to  witness — like  the  suspension  of  his  faculties 
upon  a  cross. 

Little  could  be  added  now  to  Noreen's  suffering.  It 
is  not  given  to  one  in  the  depths  to  realize  what  perfect 
soul-substance  the  recent  months  had  brought  her.  The 
thought  had  come  in  her  happier  reactions,  that  if  she 
were  like  other  human  beings,  the  patience,  the  self- 
control,  and  the  purity  of  her  yearning — this  bearing  all 
cleanly  and  without  a  cry — was  great  with  tempering 
and  expansion.  But  the  hunger  within  her  was  deep  and 
masterful  for  the  end  of  it  all.  As  never  before,  she  felt 
the  need  of  a  human  force  to  lean  upon.  There  was 
neither  priest  nor  pastor  nor  woman  in  her  life.  Her 
heart  cried  out  for  a  greatness  such  as  Routledge  had 
suggested  in  Rawder.  To  her,  their  bravest  man  was  a 
splendid,  glowing  picture  of  sorrows ;  before  such  a  one 
she  could  have  knelt  and  found  healing,  indeed.  .  .  . 
And  with  what  infinite  content  could  she  have  knelt  in  this 
hour  before  the  disciple  of  Rawder ! 

It  is  a  dear  but  delicate  thing  to  chronicle  that  matters 
of  sex  were  practically  untouched  by  the  mind  of  the 
woman  in  so  far  as  Routledge  was  concerned.  Not  at 
all  did  she  despise  these  matters ;  nor  is  it  to  be  inferred 
that  she  was  one  of  those  miraculous  innocents  who 
reach  maturity  with  a  mind  virgin  to  the  mysteries  of 
creation.  She  had  felt  with  a  thrilling,  exquisite  sense 


A  Toast  to  the  Outcast  183 

the  imperious  young  summer  of  her  life,  and  all  that 
throbbing  veins  and  swift-running  dreams  mean  under 

the  steady  stars But  the  call  to  her  out  of 

all  creation — which  was  the  voice  of  Routledge — was 
vital  with  a  rounder  and  more  wonderful  vibrance. 

One  art  of  his  that  had  found  the  heart  of  her  was 
his  conception  of  the  inner  loveliness  of  life.  He  caught 
the  finer  relation  of  things.  He  could  love  the  lowliest, 

0 

hunger  with  them,  and  realize  in  their  midst  the  brother 
hood  of  man.  He  perceived  the  great  truths  everywhere 
which  purely  physical  men,  of  necessity,  must  miss.  His 
discovery  of  Rawder  was  great  with  meaning  to  Noreen, 
and  his  adoration  for  those  silent  sacrifices  which  summed 
into  a  life  of  glory  unobserved  by  the  world.  He  could 
love  India  without  hating  England.  He  could  be  the 
greatest  of  war-scribes  and  despise  war.  He  laughed 
at  material  possessions  and  bowed  before  breech-clout 
chivalry.  He  had  witnessed  processes  of  life  and  death 
in  their  most  cruel,  intricate,  and  abominable  manifesta 
tions,  but  had  preserved  his  optimism.  This,  which  so 
many  words  are  required  even  to  suggest — and  which  is 
covered  in  the  single  expression,  soul  growth — was  the 
rousing,  irresistible  appeal  of  Routledge  to  the  woman 
whose  spiritual  age  was  sufficient  to  respond  to  it. 

The  man's  intellect — in  contrast  to  the  enchanting 
mystic  element  of  his  mind — compelled,  stimulated,  and 
enfolded  her  own.  When  Routledge  talked,  such  a 
sympathy  was  aroused  within  her  that  she  could  watch 
the  play  of  scenes  before  his  eyes,  the  tithe  of  which  only 
he  told.  In  all  that  he  had  said  and  written  she  found  the 
same  smooth-running,  high-powered  intelligence.  She 
had  never  touched  his  limitations,  therefore  infinity  could 


184  Routiedge  Rides  Alone 

hold  no  greater  delights.  She  loved  the  harmony  of  his 
talents  and  the  sterling,  one-pointed  direction  of  a  man 
whose  life  is  apart  from  the  complicated  lives  of  modern 
men.  All  dimensions  of  knowledge  were  in  his  mind; 
and  yet  its  surfaces  were  free  from  taints  and  scar-tissue, 
preserved  with  virginities.  His  thoughts  had  that  firm 
delicacy  of  the  strong,  and  some  of  his  thoughts  had 
ripened  in  mystic  suns  and  rains. 

Once  she  had  been  but  one  of  many  champions  of 
the  man  and  his  work.  From  time  to  time  under  his 
name,  the  Review  had  ignited  London.  The  men  of  his 
world  and  hers  had  granted  his  supremacy  as  a  picture- 
maker  of  war — and  yet  to  her  this  was  one  of  his  lesser 
attractions.  She  loved  to  look  into  his  conception  of 
things  back  of  the  words.  How  pitiably  often  were  the 
words  shaped  to  meet  the  so-called  needs  of  a  daily 
paper,  as  the  bones  of  a  Chinese  foot  are  crushed  into 
a  thimble.  It  was  the  master  behind  the  narrator ;  the 
man  who  lived  and  moved  in  a  wonderland  that  was  a 
hopeless  arcanum  to  the  many;  the  man  who  glimpsed 
the  temple  of  truth,  if  not  from  within,  at  least  from  the 
gardens — it  was  he  who  fascinated  the  woman.  And 
since  she  loved  him,  she  was  proud  that  his  intelligence 
enfolded  her  own. 

The  physical  man,  Routiedge,  all  men  had  found 
excellent  in  those  good  days  before  the  mystery.  His 
endurance  and  bravery  had  formed  many  classics  for 
his  craft.  He  had  always  bewitched  her  father.  Inci 
dentally,  her  life  among  the  many  friends  of  her  father — 
soldiers,  seamen,  and  civilian  campaigners — had  taught 
her  that  man's  judgment  for  man  is  best.  .  .  .  But 
it  was  not  Routiedge,  the  fearless  and  tireless ;  not 


A  Toast  to  the  Outcast  185 

Routledge,  the  male,  who  called  her  so  ardently  this 
night.  At  least,  it  was  less  the  male  than  the  mind ;  and 
less  the  mind  than  the  mystic.  ...  It  would  be 
the  idlest  affectation  to  assert  that  actual  marriage  with 
Routledge  was  beyond  the  pale  of  her  thoughts;  and 
yet  this  was  not  her  ultimate  passion.  To  be  with  him 
in  great  wanderings  of  gentle  purport;  to  meet  the  suns 
and  storms  with  calmness  and  cheer;  constantly  to  toil 
together,  helping,  meditating,  always  together  on  the 
world's  highways,  always  looking  toward  God's  Good 
Hope,  with  thoughts  in  the  stars,  but  not  so  lost  in  the 
stars  that  they  missed  the  sorrowing  by  the  roadside; — 
wandering  grateful  for  life  together,  having  a  tear  for 
the  helpless,  a  smile  for  the  beautiful,  and  a  love  for 
each  other  so  vast  and  pure  that  it  must  needs  love  the 
world  and  reflect  the  love  of  God.  .  .  .  Such  was 
Noreen  Cardinegh's  dream  of  the  fullness  of  days — so 
great  a  gratitude  to  the  Most  High  for  the  presence  of 
her  lover,  that  it  would  manifest  itself  in  eternal  services 
to  those  who  could  not  be  so  happy — services  that  fal 
tered  before  no  pain,  quailed  before  no  horrent  spectacle, 
and  retained  their  sweet  savor  in  the  lowliest  haunts 
of  men. 

Marriage.  ...  It  might  come.  In  some 
garden  of  the  world,  there  might  be  a  halting,  when  the 
full  tides  of  life  swelled  together.  No  fixed  date,  exterior 
formality ;  no  words  uttered  by  a  Third  could  release 
these  two  for  triumphant  nuptial  flight!  .  .  .  She 
had  seen  too  much  mangling  of  this  intimate  and  por 
tentous  moment  between  man  and  woman,  by  a  stranger, 
the  member  of  a  paid  profession — how  often  the  mere 
licensed  liberator  of  lusts.  A  signal  from  him,  as  to 


186  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

runners  set  for  a  Marathon — the  spirit  of  chastity  already 
a  ghost.  .  .  . 

If  she  should  some  time  turn  in  the  day's  journey  and 
meet  in  the  eyes  of  Cosmo  Routledge  that  challenge 
which  startled  her  into  full-length  a  woman — with  old 
Nature's  anthem  flooding  her  vein  and  brain — then  of 
all  times,  in  their  incarnation,  would  there  be  but  the 
hand  of  the  conqueror  to  lead  her  to  the  place  the  earth- 
gods  had  made  ready !  .  .  .  After  that,  the  formali 
ties,  the  blessings — and  the  law  which,  being  good  for 
the  many,  is  necessary  for  all.  .  .  . 

She  leaned  against  the  mantel  and  closed  her  eyes, 
trying  to  find  her  lover's  lodge  this  night  in  the  wilder 
ness  of  the  world. 

"Nor— Noreen!" 

The  voice,  rough,  charged  with  fright  in  itself,  shook 
the  woman  to  the  very  roots  of  her  life.  Her  whole 
psychic  force  had  winged  away  to  find  the  mate;  only 
her  body  was  in  the  silent  room  in  Cheer  Street.  There 
is  a  thrilling  hurt  in  the  sudden  intrusion  of  physical 
force  upon  such  contemplation.  She  ran  to  her  father's 
room. 

"  Eh,  Gawd !  I — I  was  dreaming,  child,"  he  mumbled, 
as  she  entered  the  dark  where  he  lay. 


FOURTEENTH  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  IS  ASSURED  OF  A  WOMAN'S  LOVE- 

THOUGH  HE  SHOULD  LEAD  THE  ARMIES 

OF  THE  WORLD  TO  BURN  LONDON 


I,  Johnny  Brodie  of  Bookstalls,  there's  a  sweet 
lady  looking  for  you  !  Possibly  you  know  it,  scamp, 
and  are  tricking  from  doorway  to  doorway  behind  her 
carriage,  and  grinning  because  those  of  whom  she  in 
quires  don't  know  a  little  maverick  like  you.  .  .  . 
You  think  she  is  out  to  do  harm  to  the  Man;  and  you 
won't  be  caught  with  her  elbows  on  your  knees  again, 
and  her  great  gold-brown  eyes  boring  into  your  hard 
head  where  the  Man's  sacred  secrets  are!  .  .  .  Per 
haps  you  will,  after  all,  Johnny  Brodie,  but  it  will  be 
after  this  narrative  (when  there  are  lights  again  in  that 
room  of  mystery  and  enchantment  across  the  hall),  and 
the  Man  is  back  in  Bookstalls,  there  being  no  further 
need  of  secrets.  .  .  .  The  Hate  of  London  will  never 
change  direction  by  reason  of  gossip  of  yours,  Johnny 
Brodie,  because  "  the  best  fellows  in  this  world  are  those 
strong  enough  to  hold  their  tongues  at  the  right  time." 
You  learned  that  lesson,  Manikin.  Did  you  learn  the 
other  so  well  —  about  it  not  being  good  to  do  a  thing 
alone,  which  you  wouldn't  do  if  the  one  you  liked  best 
in  the  world  were  watching?  That's  a  harder  lesson. 
.  .  .  No,  it  won't  be  your  revelation  of  that  impreg 
nable  night  which  brings  the  outcast  into  love  and  laurels, 
but  so  badly  have  you  frightened  a  poor  old  man  that  he 

187 


188  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

is  about  to  rush  half  around  the  world  to  avoid  meeting 
you  again — instead  of  dying  in  Cheer  Street.  .  .  . 
Your  short-trousered  part  in  these  events  ended  with  the 
slam  of  the  Cheer  Street  door,  Johnny  Brodie — but  God 
love  you,  little  boy,  and  Johnny  Brodies  every 
where!  .  .  . 

The  next  morning,  and  thrice  in  the  week  following, 
Noreen  Cardinegh  drove  to  Bookstalls  and  threaded  the 
unkempt  way  up  and  down  in  vain  for  the  boy.  She 
had  failed  to  learn  the  name  of  the  pastry-cook  who 
employed  him,  and  it  would  have  been  her  last  thought 
to  seek  him  in  the  house  of  Routledge's  lodgings. 
Though  a  familiar  in  Bookstalls,  he  was  an  unfiled  human 
document  of  the  ancient  highway;  and  always  she  re 
turned  to  Cheer  Street  profitless.  ...  It  would  be 
merciless  to  question  her  father;  and  yet  he  seemed  to 
divine  her  anxiety  to  find  the  boy,  and  to  fear  her  success 
as  a  visitation  of  death.  It  was  hard  for  her  to  see  him, 
the  man  whose  courage  had  been  a  point  of  British  com 
ment  for  forty  years,  white,  shaken,  and  exhausted  from 
suspense  when  she  returned  from  Bookstalls.  Still,  he 
dared  not  ask  if  she  had  seen  the  boy ;  and  she  did  not 
confess  that  she  had  been  searching. 

Her  only  line  on  the  mystery  was  to  this  effect: 
Routledge,  though  innocent,  was  blamed  by  England  for 
some  appalling,  unmentionable  crime,  openly  unpunish 
able.  Her  father  and  a  few  others  knew  the  specific 
charge.  Routledge  had  not  known  this  at  the  Armory, 
but  knew  it  the  morning  afterward.  Meanwhile,  her 
father  and  Johnny  Brodie  had  been  with  him.  All  the 
boy's  actions  denoted  that  he  knew  something,  possibly 


A  Woman's  Love  189 

a  great  deal  in  a  fragmentary  way,  which  she  might  be 
able  to  piece  together  into  an  illumination.  He  must 
have  known  something,  since  he  apparently  had  been 
pledged  to  silence.  At  all  events,  he  was  lost. 

It  must  be  understood  that  Noreen's  conviction  of 
her  father's  integrity  had  never  been  shaken.  It  was 
more  than  a  family  faith.  His  life  had  been  as  a  record 
accessible  to  all  men.  It  did  not  even  occur  to  her  to 
build  a  system  of  reasoning  upon  the  hypothesis  of  any 
guilt  of  his,  even  though  much  was  strange  and  forebod 
ing.  She  had  heard  her  father  mutter  that  a  war  would 
bring  Routledge  out  of  his  lair.  She  could  not  forget 
that  her  father  had  come  back  from  India  on  the  day 
of  the  Reception,  all  consumed  and  brain-numbed  from 
strain.  For  a  moment  in  her  arms  he  had  broken  com 
pletely — acting  like  one  who  was  to  be  dragged  from 
her  to  the  gallows.  The  next  morning,  after  his  return 
to  Cheer  Street  from  Routledge,  the  tension  was  gone. 

Comparative  peace  had  endured,  with  only  an  occa 
sional  restless  interval,  until  the  sight  of  the  Bookstalls 
boy  had  filled  him  with  inexplicable  dread.  His  condition 
when  she  returned  from  her  fourth  journey  to  Bookstalls 
was  such  that  she  determined  not  to  go  again.  One  of 
two  results  was  inevitable  if  this  devouring  tension  was 
not  speedily  relaxed — utter  insanity  or  swift  death.  One 
more  circumstance  in  this  connection  intensified  the  mys 
tery,  even  though  it  gave  her  gladness — her  father's  toast 
to  the  outcast,  the  toast  that  was  drunk  alone.  He  was 
without  that  poisonous  personal  hatred  which  the  others 
manifested  toward  Routledge.  All  these  thoughts  had 
worn  grooves  in  her  mind  from  much  passing,  but  they 
did  not  evolve  her  father's  shame. 


190  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Throughout  the  week,  the  correspondents  had  dropped 
in  by  twos  and  threes  to  bid  them  good-by.  Negotiations 
were  at  a  dead-lock,  and  the  London  dailies  wanted  their 
men  on  the  spot  for  eventualities.  Most  of  the  men  were 
going  west  to  the  Far  East — the  twenty-five  day  route, 
via  America.  Some  one,  however,  mentioned  Suez,  and 
the  name  was  on  Jerry  Cardinegh's  lips  for  an  entire 
afternoon.  At  dinner  his  idea  broke  into  words : 

"  Come,  deere,  we  must  pack  to-night.  We're  off 
to-morrow  for  Japan  on  the  P.  &  O.  liner,  Carthusian. 
We  can  smell  the  ruction  in  Japan — and  it's  a  good  place 
to  live.  London — aye,  God,  the  old  town  is  murdering 
me!" 

She  had  thought  of  it  many  times,  but  until  last  week 
her  father  had  been  happy  in  Cheer  Street,  entirely 
immune  to  the  war  ferment.  Noreen  understood  what 
had  turned  London  into  an  iron  pressure — one  little  boy, 
lost  in  din  and  fog  and  multitudes.  She  was  glad  to  go 
away. 

The  first  few  days  at  sea  helped  her  father,  but  the 
improvement  did  not  last.  They  travelled  very  leisurely, 
sometimes  stopping  over  a  ship  in  different  ports.  It 
was  with  a  quickened  heart  that  the  woman  saw  the 
Indian  coast  again  after  several  years.  Routledge  was 
intricately  identified  with  the  India  of  her  mind  now, 
and  she  knew  that  somewhere  in  India  he  was  living  out 
his  exile.  Always  in  those  days  and  nights  of  watching 
and  labor  with  the  sleepless  old  man  who  was  leaving 
her  hourly,  with  the  accelerated  speed  of  a  river  that 
nears  its  falls,  she  was  thrilled  with  the  hope  that  Bombay 
or  Madras  or  Calcutta  would  give  her  some  living  word 
ef  the  outcast.  She  hardly  hoped  to  see  Routledge ;  but 


A  Woman's  Love  191 

with  a  triple  hunger  she  yearned  to  hear  that  he  lived, 
even  to  hear  his  name  uttered  by  some  one  in  whom  the 
mystery  had  inspired  hatred.  .  .  .  But  the  Indian 
ports  furnished  nothing  concerning  Routledge.  They 
revived,  however  (and  in  her  maturity),  the  half-formed 
impressions  of  her  girlhood  on  the  Anglo-Indians  and 
their  life.  To  observe  and  despise  certain  aspects  of  the 
ruling  people  was  as  certain  a  heritage  from  her  father 
as  was  that  fairer  evolution  of  the  spirit  with  which  she 
had  been  blest  by  some  elder  lineage. 

The  English  at  Home,  Noreen  had  ever  regarded 
with  a  mental  reservation,  or  two ;  and  with  those  telling, 
divining  eyes  which  are  not  rarely  filled  with  Irish  light. 
She  had  repressed  and  even  tried  to  root  out  an  instinc 
tive  animus  for  certain  monuments  and  institutions  large 
in  British  life;  she  tried  constantly  to  shut  her  eyes  to 
that  quarry  of  self-infatuation,  perdition  deep,  from 
which  these  monuments  and  institutions  were  carved. 
She  came  to  triumph  over  her  critical  impulses  at  home, 
partly  because  her  incisive  barbs  were  dulled  by  constant 
contact  and-  repetition — but  India  again  after  the  few 
vital  years  of  growth !  .  .  .  Londoners  might  forget 
themselves  for  an  hour  or  two  a  day  on  the  Thames. 
They  allowed  it  to  be  taken  for  granted  an  hour  or  two  a 
day  at  Home  that  they  were  English.  In  India,  they  were 
more  English  than  the  English. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Noreen  Cardinegh's 
mind  was  the  arena  of  interminable  rebellion  against  the 
banishment  of  Routledge.  All  Englishmen  of  rank 
arrayed  themselves  in  contrast  to  him.  She  knew  that 
this  was  wrong,  useless;  that  the  energy  which  spent 
itself  in  contrasting  to  the  disfavor  of  the  English, 


192  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

reacted  with  a  hurt  to  her  own  finest  nature,  but  she 
could  not  help  it  now.  As  a  daughter  of  Jerry  Cai  dinegh, 
she  could  not  be  free  from  something  of  his  passion; 
moreover,  body  and  brain,  she  was  spent  in  his  service. 
There  were  vast  areas  of  unhealed  tissue  within  her — 
the  agony  of  a  daughter  of  strong  devotion,  and  the 
agony  of  a  woman  whose  romance  is  mined  and  counter 
mined.  So  it  was  a  weary  and  supersensitive  nature 
that  caught  its  new  series  of  impressions  of  Anglo- 
Indian  life — the  life  of  pegs  and  chits ;  men  moving  in  a 
circle  like  those  lost  in  the  woods ;  men  speaking  of  their 
livers  as  of  members  of  the  family;  hot,  heavy  dinners; 
the  religious,  life-and-death  ceremony  of  eating  and 
drinking;  the  arrogant  assumption  of  superiority  over 
the  native,  and  each  separate  foreigner  a  cyst  of  the 
great  British  drain!  Such  were  the  men  of  the  Indian 
ports  to  whom  the  name  of  Cosmo  Routledge  was  as 
black  magic.  It  all  came  back  to  her  like  an  ugly  dream, 
and  it  is  not  strange  that  she  returned  speedily  to  her 
ships  to  cleanse  herself  from  her  thoughts  in  the  prophy 
lactic  sea-winds. 

A  day  north  -out  of  Hong  Kong  on  one  of  the 
Empress  steamers,  Noreen  drew  her  chair  to  a  sheltered 
place  on  the  promenade  to  rest  an  hour.  The  afternoon 
was  keen  and  renovating  after  the  slow  days  of  heat  in 
the  Indian  Ocean.  Two  Americans  were  standing  at  a 
little  distance,  and  one  was  speaking  with  animation. 
A  sentence  of  his  reached  the  woman's  ears  from  time 
to  time,  between  boisterous  rushes  of  wind.  .  .  . 
"  One  of  the  best  talkers  I  ever  heard  in  my  life." 
..  .  .  "No  personal  hate  about  it."  .  .  .  "Lit 
erally  quartered  England  and  fed  her  to  the  pigs." 


A  Woman's  Love  193 

..."  No,  wouldn't  give  me  his  name,  but  I  learned 
it."  ..."  When  I  mentioned  his  name  afterward 
to  an  Englishman,  he  turned  pale,  as  if  I  had  turned  loose 
the  devil."  .  .  .  "  Speaking  of  famine  conditions, 
this  Routledge— 

Mr.  Jasper,  whose  Indian  studies  had  been  put  aside 
for  the  time  by  the  pressing  call  of  human  interest  to 
Tokyo,  turned  quickly  just  now  at  the  touch  of  a  hand 
upon  his  sleeve,  and  found  a  woman  whose  face  he  is 
still  remembering — even  as  he  enjoys  recalling  all  the 
words  and  phrases  of  the  mysterious  stranger  of 
Rydamphur. 

"  Forgive  me,  sir,"  Noreen  panted,  "  but  I  could  not 
help  overhearing  something  you  said.  You — you  men 
tioned  a  name  that  is  very  dear  to  me — Routledge !  " 

"  I  did — yes.  A  man  I  met  in  Rydamphur,  of  the 
Central  Provinces  of  India.  Excuse  me,  did  you  say  he 
was  dear  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  is  so  queer — a  rather  pleasant  surprise  for  me. 
Others  have  felt  differently  about  Routledge.  Are  you 
sure  you  mean  this  man — a  very  tall  fellow  of  thirty- 
three  or  thirty-four,  with  a  thin,  dark,  striking  face, 
and  a  striking  way  of  putting  things  in  words  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  breathlessly. 

Jasper  offered  his  card. 

"  I  am  Miss  Cardinegh,  Mr.  Jasper.  Won't  you 
please  tell  me  all  that  you  can  about  him.  It  means  so 
much  to  me.  .  .  .  Shall  we  go  into  the  reading- 
room  ?  " 

Jasper  assented,  begging  leave  from  his  companion. 
.  .  .  They  sat  down  together,  and  the  American 
13 


194  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

restored  Rydamphur  from  memory.  Since  he  had  thought 
much  of  his  day  and  night  in  that  little  centre  of  suffer 
ing,  he  built  the  picture  rather  well.  He  described  the 
manner  of  Routledge,  and  related  a  few  of  the  famine 
facts  as  he  had  drawn  them  in  that  evening-hour  at  the 
Rest  House. 

"  As  I  look  back  on  it  all,  there  is  a  queer  atmosphere 
ab^-t  ^he  whole  affair,"  said  Jasper.  "  Such  a  place  I 
never  have  known,  as  that  little  dining-room  in  Rydam 
phur.  Mr.  Routledge  seemed  to  grasp  at  once  that  my 
interest  was  sincere.  His  mind  was  filled  with  the  pith 
of  things  I  wanted  to  learn.  No  Englishman  seemed  to 
be  able  to  talk  impersonally  on  the  famine.  .  .  .  I'll 
never  forget  the  baking  night  in  that  house.  The 
punkahs  jerked  every  moment  or  so,  as  if  the  coolie  had 
stopped  to  scratch  himself.  There  was  a  cat-footed 
servant  hanging  about,  and  the  lamps  were  turned  low — 
as  if  a  bright  flame  could  not  live  in  that  burned  air." 

Mr.  Jasper  took  evident  pleasure  in  the  intensity  of 
interest  his  narrative  inspired.  "  But  first  I  must  tell 
you,  Miss  Cardinegh,"  he  went  on,  "  that  just  as  I 
entered  the  town  in  the  afternoon,  I  passed  a  little  hut 
with  an  open  door.  The  breath  that  came  out  to  me, 
I'll  not  attempt  to  describe;  only  to  say  that  there  was 
in  it  more  than  realism.  I  had  come  far  to  see  a  real 
famine,  and  this  was  my  first  lesson.  A  few  steps  on 
from  the  hut,  I  turned  to  see  a  white  man  coming  out. 
It  was  not  Mr.  Routledge,  but  a  smaller  man,  dressed  in 
native  garb.  I  have  thought  much  of  his  face.  It  had 
a  look  as  if  all  the  tragedies  that  a  man  can  know  had 
beaten  upon  it;  and  yet  it  was  so  strong  and  so  calm. 

.     .     It  was  all  like  a  dream  to  me.     Then  this  won- 


A  Woman's  Love  195 

derful  talk  with  Mr.  Routledge  at  dinner.  Afterward, 
I  asked  his  name,  but  he  withheld  it  laughingly — in  such 
a  way  that  I  took  no  offense — only  wondered  at  it." 

"  But  you  learned  his  name " 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you.  That  night  after  he  left  me, 
I  went  to  my  room  and  thought  a  long  time  on  the 
tnings  he  had  said.  I  remember  one  of  his  sayings 
impressed  me  greatly — that  we  of  the  Occident  had 
learned  to  suffer  only  through  our  excesses — but  India 
through  her  famines.  He  intimated  that  the  latter 
process  is  better  for  the  soul.  ...  It  was  too  hot 
to  think  of  sleep,  so  I  went  out  to  walk  in  that  still, 
stricken  place.  At  the  far  end  of  the  street,  I  saw  a 
candle-light  and  heard  the  voice  of  a  white  man.  And 
that  voice  I  shall  never  forget — so  low  was  it,  so  thrilling 
and  gentle.  I  remember  the  words — they  were  printed 
on  some  inner  wall  of  my  brain.  This  is  what  the  voice 
said: 

"'  .  .  .  Night  and  morning,  I  shall  send  you  my 
blessing,  Routledge,  my  brother.  Morning  and  evening, 
until  we  meet  again  in  the  Leper  Valley,  you  shall  know 
that  there  is  a  heart  that  longs  for  the  good  of  your 
life  and  your  soul.  Good-by.'  ...  I  hurried  back, 
lest  it  be  thought  that  I  was  eavesdropping.  The  man 
who  spoke  was  the  white  man  in  native  garb  who  had 
emerged  in  the  afternoon  from  that  hut  of  unburied 
dead.  The  man  whom  he  addressed  as  '  Routledge ' — 
and  thus  I  learned  his  name — was  the  one  who  had 
talked  to  me  so  brilliantly  at  dinner.  A  third  sat  in  the 
candle-light — a  very  aged  Hindu.  .  .  .  It  is  all  very 
memorable  to  me,  Miss  Cardinegh." 

Again  and  again  he  told  the  story,  or  parts  of  it,  to 


196  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

the  woman;  also  of  the  doings  of  Routledge  the  next 
morning,  before  the  English  came.  Noreen  thanked 
him  brokenly  at  last  and  hurried  back  to  her  father's 
state-room.  Mr.  Jasper  saw  very  little  of  the  lady  during 
the  rest  of  the  voyage,  and  lost  her  entirely  at  Shanghai, 
where  in  stopping  over  he  is  left  behind  the  movement 
of  the  present  narrative — a  worthy,  growing  American 
who  will  have  much  to  tell  his  sister  of  Madras  and 
the  interior,  in  spite  of  missing  the  illustrious  Annie 
Besant,  pronounced  "  Bessant "  for  esoteric  reasons. 

The  incident  was  like  oxygen  to  the  tired  woman. 
Nearing  Shanghai,  the  Empress  steamer  nosed  the 
winter  zone,  and  Jerry  Cardinegh  was  not  well  enough 
to  go  ashore.  Noreen  had  shopping  to  do,  and  took  the 
afternoon  launch  up  the  river  for  an  hour  in  the  city. 
Snow  was  falling.  On  the  Bund,  Noreen  encountered 
Finacune,  who  had  come  down  from  Tokyo  to  get  a 
glance  at  affairs  from  the  outside.  He  declared  that 
little  or  nothing  was  to  be  learned  in  the  Japanese  capital. 
Already  the  nation  was  constructing  an  impenetrable 
atmosphere  about  her  great  war.  Finacune  was  going 
back  on  the  Empress.  As  the  time  was  short,  they 
parted  to  attend  their  several  errands,  planning  to  meet 
at  the  launch  later. 

With  her  parcels,  Noreen  hurried  back  from  the  shops 
to  the  Bund  in  the  winter  twilight.  Finacune,  who  had 
not  seen  her,  was  fifty  feet  ahead,  also  making  for  the 
water-front.  She  saw  him  stop  short,  stare  for  an 
instant  at  the  profile  of  a  huge,  gaunt  figure — in  the 
great  frieze  coat!  It  was  then  that  the  mighty  leap  of 
her  heart  forced  a  cry  from  her  throat.  .  .  .  Rout- 
ledge,  staring  out  over  the  darkening  river,  started  at 


A  Woman's  Love  197 

her  voice  and  the  touch  of  her  hand.  For  a*  moment  he 
pressed  his  fingers  against  his  eyes  as  if  trying  to  shut 
out  some  haunt  from  his  brain.  Then  he^  spoke  slowly : 

"  I  did  not  think  that  there  were  substances  fine 
enough  in  the  world  to  make  a  woman  so  beautiful " 

"  Routledge-san !  Oh,  God,  there  is  only  a  moment 
or  two !  " 

"  I  should  not  have  been  here,"  he  began  vaguely. 
"  Some  one  may  see  you  talking  with  me." 

"  Don't  speak  of  that !  .  .  .  Oh,  words  are  such 
puny  things  now!  I  thought  we  understood  each  other 
about  that.  Tell  me,  are  you  ill?  You  look " 

"  No,  not  ill,  Noreen.  I  shall  be  tiptop  when  I  get 
up  yonder  into  the  field.  .  .  .  You  startled  me.  I 
think  I  was  in  a  kind  of  dream  about  you,  and  then 

you "  The  old  dread  returned  to  his  mind.  He 

wondered  if  the  man  who  had  passed  had  been  Finacune. 
"Are  you  alone?  I  wouldn't  have  anybody  see  you 
talking  to  me." 

All  that  was  in  her  heart  was  called  forth  by  the 
spectacle  of  her  giant's  pallor  and  seeming  weakness. 
Proudly  she  put  all  this  into  words : 

"  I  would  not  care  if  the  whole  world  saw  me  with 
you.  It  is  the  same  with  me — as  I  told  you  on  the  way 
to  Charing  Cross!  What  you  may  think — does  not 
make  me  afraid.  You  have  done  no  wrong.  I  want  to 
be  with  you — but  the  time  is  not  yet  come.  It  is  dread 
ful.  Why  do  you  forget  all  that  we  told  each  other — 
all  that  I  told  you?" 

"  I  have  not  forgotten,"  he  said  huskily.  "  The 
scars  of  that  hour  in  the  carriage — leaving  you  that  hour 
— would  not  suffer  me  to  forget,  but  I  should  not  speak 


198  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

this  way.  I  wrong  you  speaking  this  way.  I  am  only  a 
world-tramp  between  wars.  .  .  .  And  this  war  I 
must  watch  alone — from  the  edge  where  the  others  do 
not  go.  God,  what  a  coward  I  should  be — to  chance 
your  happiness " 

The  launch  whistled — a  tearing  in  her  brain.  The 
call  to  her  father  was  instant  and  inexorable.  .  .  . 
But  she  clung  to  Routledge — drew  him  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  stone-pier,  blind  to  the  glances  of  men  and  women 
who  brushed  by. 

"  Quick,  tell  me  of  Jerry !  "  he  said.  "  Is  he  out  for 
the  war?" 

"  My  father  is  dying  a  slow  death  out  yonder  on  the 
ship.  I  must  go  to  him.  Already  he  is  dead  to  wars  and 
friends — all  but  dead  to  me !  "  She  added  imperiously, 
"  When  my  work  is  finished  with  him,  I  shall  keep  my 
promise,  Routledge-san.  I  shall  come  to  you !  " 

"  No — I'm  going  where  you  could  not  follow " 

"  I  shall  find  you  !  " 

"  But  I  have  nothing  between  wars — no  British  press 
now,  Noreen — only  a  begging-bowl  in  India.  Why,  my 
name  is  a  whispered  hate !  .  .  .  Just  a  begging-bowl 
in  India,  Noreen — and  your  sweet  faith  in  me." 

She  was  splendid  in  the  ardor  of  her  answer : 

"  That  begging-bowl  in  India — I  shall  carry  and  share 
with  you !  I  shall  take  for  mine — that  name  of  whispered 
hate!  .  .  .  Routledge-san,  you  have  done  no  wrong 
— but  I  should  love  you,  if  you  led  the  armies  of  the 
world — to  burn  London  !  " 

He  helped  her  aboard,  as  the  bow  was  putting  out 
into  the  river.  "  In  a  time  like  this  there  are  not  big 
enough  words  for  you,  Noreen  Cardinegh." 


A  Woman's  Love  199 

"  Oh,  Routledge-san, — until  I  come,  take  care  of  your 
life  for  me !  "  she  called.  .  .  .  Then,  fearless,  full- 
voiced,  she  added,  standing  in  the  snowy  dusk :  "  And 
when  I  come — I  shall  take  care  of  your  life  for  you — 
even  in  the  Leper  Valley !  " 

He  watched  her  through  the  big,  slow-falling  flakes, 
until  the  launch  disappeared  behind  the  white  stern  of 
an  American  gunboat. 


FIFTEENTH  CHAPTER 

NOREEN  CARDINEGH  APPEARS  AFTER  MIDNIGHT  IN 

THE  BILLIARD-ROOM  OF  THE  IMPERIAL— 

AN  INEFFABLE  REMEMBRANCE 

FINACUNE  caught  a  train  for  Tokyo,  after  disem 
barking  at  Yokohama,  an  hour  or  two  before  the  Cardi- 
neghs.  He  wanted  to  prepare  the  way  at  the  Imperial 
for  the  coming  of  the  dean  and  his  daughter.  It  was 
dark  when  he  reached  Shimbashi  station  and  crossed  the 
Ginza  to  the  now-famous  hotel.  Certain  of  the  English 
correspondents  were  gathered  in  the  lobby,  it  being  not 
yet  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  These  Finacune  beckoned 
to  the  billiard-room,  and,  standing  at  the  head  of  the 
farthest  table,  glanced  over  the  faces  to  be  sure  that 
none  but  the  trusted  British  were  present.  Then  he  whis 
pered  impressively: 

"  Scene :  the  Bund  at  Shanghai,  snowy  twilight ;  time, 
five  days  ago.  Looking  out  upon  the  darkening  river, 
.  .  .  a  face  thin  as  a  dead  camel's  and  yellow- 
white  like  coral ! '  That's  one  of  his  own  sentences,  and 
God  pity  or  punish  the  sorrow  of  his  face — as  you 
like " 

"  Cut  out  the  scenario,"  ordered  Bingley.  "  Who  was 
it?" 

"  The  great  frieze  coat." 

Bingley  was  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  Nice  raw  state  of  affairs,"  he  remarked  savagely. 
**  I  s'pose  he  has  caught  on  with  one  of  those  fluttered 

200 

v 


After  Midnight  in  the  Billiard-Room    201 

newspapers  of  New  York.  They  are  grabbihg  up  any 
body  over  here,  even  the  remittance-men,  so  they  won't 
have  to  pay  expenses  out.  Rather  raw  deal,  I  call  it, — 
tcxbe  forced  to  ride  with  a  traitor  in  this  campaign.'* 

It  was  the  austere  Feeney  who  answered  darkly, 
"  Recall,  '  Horse-killer,'  that  Routledge  rides  alone." 

"  I  can't  see  yet  why  the  secret  service  doesn't  dele 
gate  a  man  to  get  him,"  Bingley  whispered. 

They  had  not  heard  that  a  venture  of  the  kind  had 
failed  at  Madras. 

"  There  is  a  time  for  all  things,"  Feeney  replied. 
"  England  never  forgets  a  man  like ' 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  the  face  you  saw  ?  "  inquired 
Benton  Day,  the  new  man  of  the  Revieiv.  His  tone  was 
troubled.  His  work  was  cut  out  for  him — to  keep  up 
the  war-reputation  of  the  old  paper  of  fat  columns. 

"  Surely,"  Finacune  said  cheerfully,  "  unless  the 
bottom  dropped  out  of  my  brain-pan." 

Trollope  sniffed  ponderously,  and  was  about  to  com 
ment  when  the  little  man  of  the  Word  resumed: 

"  Also,  I  am  permitted  to  say — and  this  with  a  great 
and  sweet  joy — that  our  dean,  war's  own  favorite,  Jerry 
Cardinegh,  came  up  with  me  from  Shanghai  on  the 
Empress,  and  that  he  will  be  here  to-night  with  his 
daughter,  Miss  Noreen." 

The  announcement  was  acclaimed. 

"  I  heard  he  was  coming,"  said  Feeney,  "  but  how  am 
I  to  meet  the  old  champion — me,  holding  down  his  old 
chair-of-war  on  the  Witness." 

"He'll  never  think  of  it,"  said  Finacune.  "Old 
Jerry  is  nearly  out  of  sight — over  the  bay.  He  didn't 
leave  his  state-room  coming  up — only  let  me  see  him 


202  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

once.  His  daughter  is  with  him  day  and  night.  The 
old  man  thought  he'd  like  to  get  into  the  zone  of  war 
once  more — before  he  goes  out  on  the  last  campaign, 
where  we  all  ride  alone." 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  the  little  Word  man  did  not 
tell  all  he  saw  on  the  Bund  at  Shanghai. 

The  men  repaired  to  the  buffet  to  break  the  strain. 
Those  were  heavy  days — those  early  February  days  in 
Tokyo.  War  was  inevitable,  but  not  declared.  Tokyo 
was  sort  of  pleased  at  her  own  forbearance.  The  vac 
cine  of  European  civilization  had  worked  with  fullness 
and  dispatch.  Here  was  proof :  the  Russian  minister  had 
been  allowed  to  clear,  double-eyed  and  teeth  still  straight. 
The  mobs  in  the  street  did  not  profess  to  understand  the 
value  of  allowing  the  enemy  to  depart  personally  intact — 
but  it  was  being  civilized.  The  world  was  watching  the 
young  yellow  nation's  first  venture  in  humane  war ;  after 
which,  if  she  conducted  herself  prettily,  the  world  would 
be  pleased  to  admit  her  into  the  first  flight  of  the  powers, 
where  all  things  having  to  do  with  economy,  polity, 
expansion,  revenue,  and  survival  are  done  in  a  finished 
fashion.  England  was  watching — and  stood  behind  her. 
Japan  must  conduct  herself  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  drag 
England  into  the  conflict. 

Japanese  infants  played  soldiers;  Japanese  police 
men  played  soldiers ;  rickshaw  coolies,  beneath  the  con 
tempt  of  a  soldier,  dreamed  of  future  incarnations  when 
they  should  evolve  into  soldiers ;  Japanese  merchants 
snuffled,  rubbed  their  damp  hands  together,  and  wept 
internally  because  the  Great  Wheel  of  Fate  had  not 
skited  them  off  into  the  military  class,  instead  of  among 
the  low-brows  of  the  shops.  And  the  soldiers  them- 


After  Midnight  in  the  Billiard-Room    203 

selves — how  they  strutted  and  performed  in  the  streets, 
critically  mirroring  each  other  and  bowing  profoundly, 
blind  to  all  glory  and  sorrow  not  of  the  soldier,  and 
important  as  a  grist  of  young  doctors  just  turned  loose 
with  their  diplomas  among  the  ills  of  the  world.  .  .  . 
Aye,  funny  and  pitiful,  the  young  Power  looked  in  its 
Western  pants  and  guns. 

What  did  England  think — smiling  back  at  the  peace 
of  her  Indian  borders — of  these  wee,  wet-nosed,  scabby- 
headed  Islanders  (with  their  queer  little  cruet-stands 
buckled  between  their  kidneys),  in  full  cry  with  "  Banzai 
Niphon  "  from  cape  to  cape  ?  What  England  thought 
was  not  what  England  said,  as  she  reserved  the  front 
pages  of  her  daily  press  for  Japanese  victories — whether 
or  no.  Not  exactly  an  ally  in  spirit  was  wise  old  Eng 
land,  but  an  ally  in  letterpress — the  veriest  Titan  of  a 
press-agent.  .  .  .  Funny  and  pitiable  indeed  was 
the  ranting,  tramping  Japanese  infantry  in  the  streets  of 
Tokyo — funnier  than  stage  infantry — quite  like  string- 
pulled  marionettes  of  papier  mache;  but  let  the  truth  be 
told,  the  truth  that  rises  clear  from  the  final  adjustment 
of  objects  in  the  perspective:  The  oil  of  all  the  chlorates, 
nitrates,  and  fulminates  filled  those  queer  little  kidney- 
cruets  ;  and  these  same  little  Japanese  infantrymen  proved 
packages — papier  mache  packages,  if  you  like — of  lyddite, 
bellite,  cordite,  romite,  hellite,  and  other  boiled-down 
cyclones. 

On  one  of  those  ugly  gray  afternoons  of  early  Feb 
ruary,  Benton  Day  of  the  Review  received  a  cablegram 
from  his  chief  in  London,  Dartmore.  There  are  few  men 
who  would  express  themselves  ironically  by  cable  at  the 


204  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

London-Tokyo  rate  of  toll.  Dartmore  did  it,  and  the 
message  follows,  with  fksh  and  organs  added  to  the 
cipher-skeleton : 

The  Review  thought  you  would  be  interested  to  know  that 
Japan  has  declared  war  and  smashed  part  of  the  Russian  fleet. 
This  news  from  New  York.  Kindly  inform  Tokyo  war-office, 
which  I  understand  is  just  a  step  from  your  hotel. 

Benton  Day  had  .come  up  from  common  things  by 
strong,  hard,  well-planned  work.  He  had  known  few 
defeats,  and  these  cut  deeply.  The  cable  from  Dartmore 
was  the  worst  whipping  of  his  career.  Gray  with  shame, 
he  sought  the  billiard-room  of  the  hotel,  where  he  found 
an  animated  group  of  British  and  American  correspon 
dents  who  had  just  heard  the  news — ten  hours  after  it 
had  been  printed  in  London  and  New  York.  He  found 
that  Dartmore  alone  had  taken  pains  to  be  ironical  in 
the  matter.  The  truth  was  exactly  as  ungetatable  in 
Tokyo  as  in  Mombassa — until  the  war-office  chose  to 
give  it  up.  Benton  Day  was  only  to  blame  in  so  far  as 
he  was  not  a  telepathist.  This  knowledge  eased  him 
greatly,  but  did  not  detract  from  his  anger  at  Dartmore — 
an  emotion  which  is  bad  for  a  young  man  to  take  out  on 
his  first  big  campaign.  The  little  sentence  in  the  cable 
gram  regarding  the  fact  that  London  had  received  the 
news  from  New  York,  held  big  interest  for  Feeney,  the 
saturnine. 

"  Japan  was  busy  last  night,"  he  communed.  "  Her 
Mr.  Togo  smashed  the  Russians  off  Port  Arthur,  and 
her  little  Mr.  Uriu,  off  Chemulpo.  It's  about  time,"  he 
added  with  a  trace  of  Indiana  humor,  "  Japan  was 
declaring  war.  But  the  thing  that  gets  me  is,  how  did 
New  York  know?  .  .  .  Finacune,  my  young 


After  Midnight  in  the  Billiard-Room    205 

i 

friend,  was  it  you  who  suggested  something  about  the 

gfeat  frieze  coat  catching  on  with  New  York  papers?" 

Harrowing  weeks  at  the  Imperial  followed,  while 
armies  augmented,  navies  fought  in  the  dark,  and  the 
bearers  of  the  light  of  the  world  made  newspaper  copy 
out  of  heathen  temples  and  Japanese  street  scenes.  Free 
lances  fled  to  outer  ports,  there  to  hearken  unto  the  tales 
of  refugees  and  weary  the  world.  And  the  names  of 
these,  the  Japanese  carefully  ticketed  to  Failure,  and 
severed  from  Opportunity  forever. 

The  Blue  Boar,  Trollope,  wore  best  of  all.  He  bathed 
in  many  springs  throughout  the  empire,  peeked  into 
strange  quarters  of  both  capitals,  and  ate  and  drank 
after  the  fashion  of  those  who  are  formed  of  arcs  and 
not  of  angles.  From  time  to  time  he  cabled  his  paper 
three  words  of  hope,  and  eight  words  of  expense  account. 
Trollope  strolled  down  the  menus  in  all  parts  of  Niphon — 
native  and  European  menus — with  fine  relish,  and  waited 
serenely  for  the  time  when  he  should  lean  and  harden 
in  the  field,  his  sleeves  rolled  up — one  hand  covering  the 
strategy  of  armies,  the  other  at  a  caUe-end,  and  his  sweat 
ing  face  reflecting  the  pink  aad  pearly  flush  of  fame. 

It  was  not  so  with  the  other*.  Finacune  was  ragged 
and  restless.  The  pale  Taliiaferro  looked  twice  for  his 
own  shadow.  Feeney's  dark  fighting1- face  wasted  and 
hardened,  until  it  seemed  hew»  from  a  block  of  brown 
bone ;  and  Trollope's  serene  amd  ch*«f  cless  calm  wrought 
upon  Bingley's  nerves  like  an  actire  poison. 

These  two  did  not  pretend  to  speak  at  the  last.  The 
Horse-killer  took  on  the  look  (Ms  fray  eyes  were  cold 
and  immutable  as  corner  stones,  a»y  way)  as  if  he  would 


206  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

spur  over  a  sea  of  dead  men's  faces  to  get  a  big  tale  and 
a  free  cable.  It  would  not  have  been  so  bad  except  that 
the  London  papers,  coming  in  now  with  the  first  cables 
of  the  correspondents,  showed  a  consistent  garbling  and 
distortion  of  their  reports.  Home  writers  occupied  miles 
of  space,  placed  Togo  along  with  Lord  Nelson,  and 
Mutsuhito  with  Gladstone — a  deep  planned,  conscience 
less  campaign  of  fact-mutilation  for  the  extolling  of 
Japanese  character  and  mettle.  New  York,  young  in 
war-handling,  was  inclined  to  follow  London's  diplomatic 
lead,  against  the  reports  of  her  own  men.  February  and 
March  ended  before  the  first  batch  of  the  British  cor 
respondents  were  informed  that  they  could  take  the  field 
with  Kuroki's  first  army. 

Feeney  and  Finacune  remained  in  the  billiard-room 
that  last  night  at  the  Imperial,  long  after  the  rest  had 
gone.  These  two  men  had  pulled  apart  from  the  others 
in  pulling  together — the  most  florid  with  the  dullest  of 
writers;  the  showiest  with  the  deepest.  It  had  been  an 
evening  of  rousing  festivity.  Possibly  because  these  two 
had  drunk  less  than  the  others ;  or  possibly  because  their 
hopes  for  the  field  had  been  prolonged  and  mangled  for 
such  a  length  of  time  that  they  could  not  sleep  now  until 
they  were  actually  booming  down  the  Tokaido,  Feeney 
and  Finacune  were  billiarding  idly  after  one  o'clock  in 
the  morning  and  cooling  the  fever  of  the  night's  stronger 
spirits  with  long,  chilled  glasses  of  soda,  lightly  flavored 
with  Rhenish  wine. 

Jerry  Cardinegh  had  come  down  for  a  moment  early 
in  the  evening  for  a  word  of  parting.  For  days  none 
had  seen  him  below ;  and  only  a  few  of  his  older  friends 
were  admitted  to  the  big,  dim  room,  overlooking  the 


After  Midnight  in  the  Billiard-Room    207 

park  of  the  Government  buildings — where  a  woman 
lived  and  moved,  lost  to  light  and  darkness,  and  struggled 
every  inch  with  the  swift  encroachments  of  the  inevit 
able.  Noreen's  father  relied  upon  her,  as  upon  air  and 
a  place  to  lie.  God  knows  what  vitality  he  drew  from 
the  strong  fountains  of  her  life  to  sustain  his  last  days. 

Incessantly  active,  Noreen  Cardinegh  was  worn  to  a 
brighter  lustre,  as  if  fatigue  brought  out  the  fineness  of 
her  human  texture — a  superlative  woman  who  held  her 
place  and  her  dreams.  Finacune  had  loved  her  for  years. 
He  was  closer  to  her  own  romance  than  any  of  her 
father's  friends ;  and  the  little  man  perceived  with  an 
agony  of  which  few  would  have  thought  him  capable, 
that  his  own  chance  was  not  worth  the  embarrassment 
of  telling  her.  Indeed,  Finacune  told  no  one.  This  was 
his  best  room,  and  locked.  Noreen  Cardinegh  was  the 
image  there,  beyond  words,  almost  an  abstraction.  This 
Word  man  was  rather  a  choice  spirit,  if  not  a  great  one. 
He  was  thinking  of  Noreen  now,  as  he  knocked  the  balls 
around.  She  had  appeared  with  her  father  earlier  in 
the  night,  and  had  stood  behind  him  under  the  old 
Moorish  arch  at  the  entrance  to  the  billiard  room — 
darkness  behind  her,  and  a  low  table-chandelier  in 
front.  .  .  . 

Finacune  was  thinking,  too,  of  the  old  man  whom 
she  had  helped  down-stairs  to  say  good-by  to  the  boys. 
Cardinegh  had  been  his  boyish  ideal.  He  would  not  be 
seen  again — and  what  a  ghastly  travesty  was  his  last 
appearance !  .  .  .  Jerry  had  entered  walking  rigidly, 
his  limbs  like  wood,  a  suggestion  of  chaos  in  the  shaking, 
aimless  hands ;  the  shaven  face  all  fallen  about  the  mouth ; 
all  the  stirring  history  of  an  earth-wise  man,  censored  and 


208  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

blotted  from  the  flame-rimmed  eyes ;  the  temples  blotched 
with  crimson  and  the  mind  struggling  with  its  debris 
like  Gilliat  against  sea  and  sand  and  sky.  And  the 
words  the  dean  had  uttered — nothings  that  meant  death. 

Feeney  had  just  carefully  and  neatly  made  a  three- 
cushion  carom,  with  the  remark  that  he  could  do  it  again 
on  horseback,  when  there  was  a  light,  swift  tread  upon 
the  stairway,  a  rushing  in  the  hall,  light  as  a  blown  paper, 
and  Noreen  Cardinegh  burst  upon  them — half  a  torrent, 
half  a  spirit,  indescribable  altogether.  The  souls  of  the 
two  men  divined  her  message  before  she  spoke,  but 
their  brains  were  slower.  And  their  eyes  were  startled. 
To  Finacune,  it  became  an  ineffable  portrait — the  fright 
ened  face,  white  as  pearl  and  set  in  gold;  the  dark  silk 
waist,  unfastened  at  the  throat ;  the  red-gold  hair  dressed 
and  wound  seemingly  in  Mother  Nature's  winds ;  the 
face  refined  in  the  whitest  fires  of  earth;  her  eyes  like 
twin  suns  behind  smoked  glass ;  and  the  lips  of  Noreen — 
lips  like  the  mother  of  a  prophet. 

"  Oh,  come  quickly !  "  she  said,  and  was  gone. 

Finacune  dashed  up  the  stairway  three  at  a  stride, 
but  he  never  overtook  her — a  fact  for  profound  specula 
tion  afterward.  She  was  bending  over  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  sustaining  her  father,  when  he  entered.  Cardinegh 
stared  at  him  wildly  for  a  second;  then  hearkened  to 
Feeney's  footsteps  in  the  hall.  When  the  latter  entered, 
me  dean  turned  imploringly  to  his  daughter. 

"Where's  Routledge?"  he  gasped.  "He  said  he'd 
come  back." 

A  single  jet  of  gas  was  burning  in  the  big  room. 
With  a  nod  of  her  head,  Noreen  signified  for  the  men  to 
answer. 


After  Midnight  in  the  Billiard-Room     209 
> 

"  I  haven't  heard  from  him,  Jerry,"  Feeney  faltered. 

"  Eh,  Gawd ! — he'd  better  come  quickly — or  he  won't 
see  old  Jerry.  I'm  going  out — not  with  you,  boys — but 
afield.  I  want  to  see  Routledge.  He  said  he'd  come 
back  and  bring  his  book — done  under  the  pressure  of 
British  hate.  I  told  you,  didn't  I — he  took  the  hate  from 
me?  ...  I  told  Noreen.  .  .  .  Feeney!  Fina- 
cune !  ...  It  was  I  who  gave  the  Russian  spies  the 
Shubar  Khan  papers !  .  .  .  Don't  leave  me,  Noreen. 
Pour  me  a  last  drink,  Feeney.  .  .  .  Gawd!  but  I've 
travelled  in  the  shadow  of  death  for  two  years — afraid — 
afraid  to  tell — afraid  of  his  coming  back !  I  can  see  now 
— he  wouldn't  come  back !  .  .  .  I'm  not  afraid  now 
— but  I've  had  my  hell  two  years.  .  .  .  You  would 
have  found  it  in  my  papers,  Noreen.  Show  them  to  the 
men — cable  the  truth  to  London " 

"  Jerry,  Jerry,"  whispered  old  Feeney,  who  was 
stricken,  "  did  Ireland  get  the  best  of  you  at  the  last?  " 

Finacune  nudged  him  angrily.  "  Jerry,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  don't  go  out  with  this  stuff  on  your  lips.  We  know 
you're  doing  it  for  Routledge " 

The  woman  turned  upon  him,  but  did  not  speak. 

"I  did  it  for  Ireland— but  it  failed!"  Cardinegh 
answered.  "  These  brown  mongrels  are  fighting  in  Man 
churia  the  Russians  that  England  should  have  fought  on 
the  Indian  border!  .  .  .  Eh,  Gawd! — the  dark  has 
been  long  a-liftin',  deere — but  it's  gone — and  you  know 
from  me,  without  the  papers!  .  .  .  Ah,  Nory,  child 

of  my  heart "    He  was  straining  upward  toward  her 

face,  as  if  he  could  not  see  her  well.     "...     'Tis 

your  mother — 'tis  your  mother — I'm  off,  darlin' " 

14 


210  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  The  old  toast,"  Feeney  muttered.  "  It  came  true — 
the  toast  we  all  stood  to  in  Calcutta !  " 

The  woman  held  but  the  ashes  of  a  man  in  her  arms, 
and  they  drew  her  away  at  last.  They  thought  from  the 
look  of  her  face  that  she  would  fall,  but  she  did  not. 
Instead,  she  said  with  sudden  swiftness : 

"  Here  are  the  papers.  He  told  me  all,  just  before  I 
called  for  you.  I  wanted  you  both  to  hear.  It  is  true. 
You  must  cable  to-night  to  the  war  office  in  London — to 
the  owners  of  your  papers — to  all  those  who  know  the 
story.  Then  the  secret  service  must  be  told — lest  they  do 
Routledge-san  further  hurt.  It  must  be  done  now.  Tell 
the  other  men  to  cable  before  they  go  out.  I  will  cable, 
too.  .  .  .  My  father  is  guilty.  We  went  back  to 
Tyrone  before  the  Bhurpal  trouble — to  the  little  town 
where  he  found  my  mother,  in  Tyrone.  When  he  saw 
the  British  troops  quartered  on  that  starving,  sunken  little 
place — his  mind  gave  way.  He  had  the  papers  then, 
which  he  gave  afterward  to  the  Russian  spies !  " 

All  this  the  woman  spoke  before  she  wept 


SIXTEENTH  CHAPTER 

CERTAIN  CIVILIANS  SIT  TIGHT  WITH  KUROKI,  WHILE 

THE  BLOOD-FLOWER  PUTS  FORTH  HER 

BRIGHT  LITTLE  BUDS 

THEY  were  in  a  troop-train  at  last,  down  the  Tokaido, 
the  old  cedar-lined  highway  of  the  daimios, — Feeney, 
Finacune,  Trollope,  Bingley,  other  English  and  as  many 
more  Americans.  The  road  was  a  brown  streak  of  troop- 
laden  trains  off  to  embarkation  ports.  Japan  was  send 
ing  out  her  willing  wealth  of  men  to  a  brown  and  sullen 
land  of  such  distances  as  would  balk  the  short-sighted 
Japanese  eye,  so  used  to  toy  sizes  in  all  things — toy  trees, 
terraces,  hills,  and  roads,  whose  ends  are  mostly  in  view. 
These  men  were  off  to  fight  now  in  the  outer  court  of 
"  the  last  and  the  largest  empire,  whose  map  is  but  half 
unrolled." 

Bingley  was  sitting  apart  as  usual,  already  in  puttees 
and  Bedford  cords,  a  blanket-roll  underfoot  and  a  light, 
travelling  type-mill  in  a  leather-case  by  his  side.  Bingley 
was  brimming  with  the  morbid,  moody  passion  for 
Bingley  triumphs.  A  great  type  of  the  militant  English 
man  this,  with  his  stiff  jaw  and  strong-seasoned  blood, 
utterly  painless  to  almost  everything  but  the  spur  of 
ambition ;  identified  peculiarly,  penetratingly,  with 
Bingley  and  no  other;  the  six  feet  of  animal  named 
Bingley,  in  a  soft  shirt  and  Bingley  cords.  He  was 
sombrely  glad  this  April  morning  to  be  started  for  the 
field  at  last.  Presently  the  Thames,  London,  the  world, 

211 


Routledge  Rides  Alone 

would  hear  the  name  of  Bingley  again — and  the  name 
would  mean  a  giant  grappling  with  "  monster  heroisms  " 
in  the  midst  of  Asia  and  armies.  The  revelation  and  death 
of  Jerry  Cardinegh  the  night  before  had  a  personal  aspect 
from  Bingley's  point  of  view.  It  was  that  Routledge, 
vindicated,  would  have  a  free  hand  again.  He  would 
probably  oust  Benton  Day  from  the  Review  and  seek  to 
regain  his  old  supremacy.  Routledge  would  require  lots 
of  handling,  delicate  and  daring,  to  be  downed  and 
dimmed. 

To  Feeney  and  Finacune,  the  events  of  the  night 
before  had  taken  a  place  among  the  great  military  crises 
of  their  experience.  They  had  cabled  the  morning  hours 
away,  as  the  other  Englishmen  had  done,  urged  by  the 
woman.  Indeed,  the  American  correspondents  were  not 
a  little  disturbed  by  the  unwonted  activity  of  the  London 
ers  at  a  time  when,  to  them,  all  was  done.  What  the 
confession  of  Jerry  Cardinegh  meant  to  the  English  is 
difficult  adequately  to  express.  Routledge  had  always 
been  outre  and  mysterious.  The  great  treachery  adjusted 
itself  to  him  with  a  degree  of  readiness,  since  it  is  easier 
to  identify  a  brilliant  crime  with  an  individual  held  loftily, 
than  with  one  in  the  more  immediate  reaches  of  the 
public  comprehension.  But  that  old  Jerry,  their  dean, 
their  master  of  many  services,  their  idol  and  chief,  should 
have  turned  this  appalling  trick  against  the  British  arms 
which  he  had  helped  to  make  famous — this  was  a  heart- 
jolt  which  bruised  the  twinings  of  a  hundred  sentiments. 
Feeney  was  an  Irishman,  and  could  understand  the 
Cardinegh-passion,  probably  better  than  the  others,  but 
he  could  not  understand  its  expression  in  treachery.  To 
him  there  was  only  one  explanation — madness.  .  .  . 


The  Blood-Flower  213 

They  discerned  the  Pacific  from  the  Hankone  moun 
tains,  boomed  through  big,  strange  towns  to  Kyoto ;  then 
Sasebo,  the  troop-ships,  and  the  landing  at  a  Korean  base, 
where  they  learned  with  bitterness  that  a  second  siege 
of  waiting  had  just  begun.  The  world  outside  now  was 
but  a  wordless  buzzing  of  voices,  as  from  a  locked  room. 
They  were  at  Anju  when  the  first  brush  happened  at 
Chengju  (a  neat  little  rout  of  Cossacks).  They  were  at 
Chengju  when  Kuroki  occupied  Wiju,  regardless  of  the 
growling  of  the  Bear.  They  were  at  Yongampho,  in  the 
last  few  hours  of  April,  when  Kuroki  crossed  the  Yalu, 
ten  miles  northeast,  and  fought  the  first  great  battle, 
named  after  the  river.  Always  it  was  this  way — a  day  or 
two's  march  behind  the  business-end  of  the  army. 

It  had  been  a  dead  delay  in  Tokyo ;  but  it  was  a  wait 
lively  with  aggravations  now — the  wisp  of  fragrant  hay 
forever  dangling  in  scent.  An  English  military  attache 
arriving  late  from  Seoul  brought  the  word  that  the  cables 
of  the  correspondents  reached  their  papers  from  seven 
to  fifteen  days  late ;  and  then  with  lineaments  of  the  text 
effaced  by  censorship — stale,  egoless,  costly  messages. 
At  this  word  one  of  the  American  scribes  crumpled  under 
the  strain  and  went  out  into  the  Yellow  Sea  in  a  junk,  a 
mad  dream  in  his  brain  to  meet  the  sea-god,  Togo,  face 
to  face.  Old  Feeney,  accustomed  to  discuss  strategies 
with  generals,  was  spurred  to  such  a  distemper  that  he 
cabled  to  be  recalled.  It  is  significant  that  his  message 
was  the  first  of  the  war  to  go  through  the  Japanese 
censor  untouched  by  the  blue  pencil. 

Aye,  and  when  the  silent  red  stream  of  wounded 
began  to  trickle  back  from  the  Yalu  fight,  it  required  a 
man  to  keep  himself  reined  down  to  a  fox-trot.  It  was 


214  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

color,  war-color,  this  back-throw  from  the  weltering 
fields.  Even  this  stopped,  and  Kuroki  seemed  hung  for 
ever  in  the  hills  about  Fengwangcheng.  The  civilians 
breathed  hard  those  weeks,  and  lived  in  an  atmosphere 
burned  from  human  rage.  Always  excepting  Trollope, 
the  Blue  Boar,  who  had  a  feeling  for  China.  He  studied 
the  deep,  rutty  Chinese  roads  through  the  hills  (back  of 
the  army),  some  of  them  worn  into  formidable  ravines — 
eroded  by  bare  human  feet  and  the  showers  of  centuries. 
There  were  strange  little  shrines  and  monasteries  high 
in  those  grim  hills,  and  Trollope  filled  a  note-book  with 
their  names  and  history.  There  are  strata  of  mystery 
under  the  cuticle  of  China  of  which  the  raw  young  mind 
of  the  white  man  can  only  conceive  a  tithe — and  then 
only  in  the  ecstasy  of  concentration.  And  what  names 
he  found — Road  of  the  Purple  Emperor ;  Spring  of  the 
Whispering  Spirit;  Cascade  of  the  Humming-bird's 
Wing ;  Cataract  of  the  Sombre  Clouds ;  Grotto  of  the 
Adulteress'  Death — not  names  of  mere  flowery  choosing, 
but  names  made  florid  by  the  necessities  of  a  people 
whose  history  is  so  long  that  a  poetic  glamour  has  fallen 
upon  it.  And  the  Blue  Boar  found  much  to  eat  of  a 
wierd  flavory  sort,  and  kept  his  poundage. 

What  strategy  was  this  which  held  a  big,  fat,  pompous 
army  inactive  through  a  golden  month  of  campaigning 
like  this  June?  Bingley  exclaimed  that  Kuroki  was  so 
inflated  by  the  Yalu  victory  that  he  was  content  to  hunt 
butterflies  for  the  rest  of  the  summer.  The  rumble  of 
real  war  reached  the  writers  from  time  to  time.  Appar 
ently,  the  other  Japanese  generals  were  not  like  this  gray- 
haired  Fabius — Kuroki  of  the  first  army.  A  man  named 
Oku,  it  was  reported,  had  landed  a  second  army  at 


The  Blood-Flower  215 

Pitsewo,  half  way  down  the  east  coast  of  Liaotung,  had 
bored  straightway  across  some  devilishly  steep  passes 
and  cut  off  the  fortress,  Port  Arthur,  from  the  mainland. 
The  story  of  this  fight  was  insufferable  poison  to  the 
white  men  with  Kuroki.  It  had  taken  place  on  a  narrow 
neck  of  land,  where  sits  high  the  town  of  Kinchow,  join 
ing  the  little  peninsula  of  the  fortress  to  the  big  Liao 
peninsula  above.  The  rock-collared  neck  of  land  is 
memorable  now  by  a  hill  called  Nanshan — the  battle's 
name.  Oku  burned  five  thousand  dead  after  the  fight, 
but  he  had  cut  off  Port  Arthur  for  the  siege,  and  made 
possible  the  landing  of  one  Nogi  with  a  third  Japanese 
army  at  Dalny — cheap  at  twice  the  price.  Japanese  gun 
boats  and  torpedoes  at  sea  on  the  west  had  helped  Oku 
get  the  strangle-hold  on  the  neck  of  land,  while  a  Rus 
sian  fleet  had  bombarded  from  the  bay  on  the  east.  What 
torture  to  believe  this — that  at  last  in  the  history  of  the 
world  armies  and  navies  had  met  in  a  single  action! 
It  was  almost  unthinkable  to  be  camping  with  Kuroki  in 
the  ancient  Chinese  hills,  while  such  a  panorama  unfolded 
for  the  eyes  of  other  men — a  battle  such  as  the  gods 
would  put  on  flesh  to  witness. 

Finally  the  word  was  brought  in  by  the  Chinese,  who 
knew  all  things,  that  this  jumping-bean,  Oku,  had  left 
the  fortress  to  Nogi  and  the  third  army,  and  leaped  north 
to  join  a  fourth  army,  under  Nodzu,  who  had  effected  a 
perfect  landing  at  Takushan.  Oku  whipped  poor 
Stackelberg  on  the  journey,  Telissu  being  the  historic 
title  of  this  incident  of  his  flying  march.  Thus  Yalu, 
Nanshan,  and  Telissu  were  fought  without  even  a  smell 
of  smoke  for  Bingley,  Feeney,  Finacune,  Trollope,  and 
others.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  even  Trollope  blanched  at 


216  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

the  great  war  story  the  world  missed  by  not  letting  him 
in  on  Nanshan.  That  was  one  battle  for  a  Tolstoi.  The 
English  civilians  sat  together  on  a  breezy,  sweet-scented 
hill  and  watched  the  sun  go  down  on  one  of  those  June 
evenings.  Feeney  was  writing,  the  pad  resting  upon 
his  knee. 

"  What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  your  new 
book  ?  "  Finacune  inquired. 

" '  Sitting  Tight  with  Kuroki ;  or,  The  Wild  Flowers 
of  Manchuria,'  "  grumbled  the  old  man. 

Into  the  group  presently  came  Major  Inuki,  the 
Japanese  officer  assigned  to  watch  over  the  correspon 
dents,  to  see  that  none  escaped,  to  see  that  none  learned 
anything  but  generalities,  to  furnish  unlimited  courtesy 
and  apologetic  ramifications  that  stretched  from  Kirin 
to  Port  Arthur.  Inuki  also  supplied  universes  of  unveri- 
fiable  information,  having  to  do  with  vague  Japanese 
miracles  and  vast  Russian  casualties.  He  took  off  his 
hat  now  and  bowed  all  around,  inhaled  a  long  breath 
with  a  hiss  through  his  sparkling  teeth,  and  snuffled 
violently. 

"  It  iss  more  dan  quite  possible  we  will  remain  here 
for  to-morr',  my  dear  fren's.  In  such  case  would  it  not 
be  of  good  to  instruk  your  servan's  to  ereck  the  tents — 
more  stolidity  ?  " 

Feeney  reached  over  and  gravely  clutched  the  flapping 
trouser-leg  of  his  Chinese  coolie.  "  Jean  Valjean,"  he 
said,  "  you  are  instruk  to  ereck  tents — more  stolidity." 

"  Me  plentee  slabee,"  said  Jean. 

The  odor  of  supper  was  abroad  in  the  camp  of  the 
noncombatants,  and  the  twilight  was  deep  in  the  valley 
of  young  corn.  Feeney  and  Finacune  ate  in  silence. 


The  Blood-Flower  217 

These  two  were  closer  together — close  as  only  two  male 
adults  can  be  who  have  lived  long  alone  in  broad  areas, 
sharing  toil  and  irritation  and  peril ;  apart  from  women, 
but  akin  in  memories  and  ambition.  Feeney  had  ridden 
with  the  greatest  of  the  nineteenth-century  generals.  He 
was  being  herded  now  close  to  war,  but  out  of  range  of 
any  good  to  his  calling.  He  was  thinking  of  Nanshan — 
what  a  battle  to  have  added  to  his  string !  Finacune  was 
thinking  of  the  world's  greatest  woman — how  she  had 
come  down  like  a  spirit  to  the  billiard-room  that  last 
night  in  Tokyo — and  with  what  exacting  zeal  she  had 
caused  him  and  the  others  to  cable  away  the  last  vestige 
of  glory  from  the  name  she  bore. 

"  Blot  up  another  piece  of  tea,  Feeney,"  he  muttered, 
"  and  cheer  up." 

"  I  was  just  about  to  suggest,  my  vivid  young  friend, 
that  if  you  spilled  any  more  gloom  on  this  outfit,  I  should 
burst  into  tears,"  Feeney  replied. 

There  was  a  long  silence.    "  What  ?  "  said  Feeney. 

"  I'm  a  hare-lipped  cock-roach,  if  it  isn't  wonderful !  " 
Finacune  observed  in  an  awed  tone. 

"What?" 

"  Suppose  now — just  now — suppose  a  white  woman — 
all  in  a  soft  summer  gown  and  blowing  golden  hair — 
should  walk  through  this  camp  ?  Think  of  it !  " 

"  I  did — twenty  years  ago,"  said  Feeney. 

'  Think  of  it  now,"  Finacune  persisted  raptly,  leaning 
back  against  his  saddle  with  a  pot  of  tea  in  his  hand. 
'  The  mere  sight  of  her  would  jam  a  sweetheart  or  a 
wife,  or  both,  into  the  brain  of  every  man  present — the 
first  kiss  or  a  last,  dim  light  somewhere,  a  word  or  a 
caress — the  unspeakable  miracle  that  comes  to  every  man 


218  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

some  time — that  of  a  woman  giving  herself  to  him! 
.  .  .  Ah,  that's  it,  you  old  crocodile!  It  would  all 
come  back  on  live  wires — if  a  woman  walked  through 
here — to  each  man  his  romance — hot  throats,  dry  lips, 
and  burning  eyes.  The  world  holds  a  woman  for  us  all — 
even  for  you,  yoked  to  the  war-hag;  and  if  memories 
were  tangible,  the  right  woman  would  sweep  in  upon 
us  to-night  from  five  continents  and  seven  seas.  A 
woman  !  The  mere  name  is  a  pang  to  us  lonely  devils  out 
here  in  the  open,  where  we  blister  with  hate  because  we 
are  not  allowed  to  smell  blood.  Hell ! — one  would  think 
I  had  just  broken  out  of  a  gas-house." 

"  Twenty  years  ago "  Feeney  remarked. 

"  Hark,  listen  to  that  young  American  sing " 

"  You  listen  to  me,  young  man,"  Feeney  said  force 
fully.  "  These  lines,  with  which  I  am  about  to  cleanse 
you  from  carnality  are  by  my  young  friend  Kipling: 

"White  hands  cling  to  the  tightened  rein, 
Slipping  the  spur  from  the  booted  heel. 
Tenderest  voices  cry,  '  Turn  again,' 

Red  lips  tarnish  the  scabbarded  steel ; 
High  hopes  faint  on  the  warm  hearthstone — 
He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone." 

"  '  Sing  the  heretical  song  I  have  made,'  "  Finacune 
added,  entirely  uncooled.  .  .  .  "I've  heard  fat  Lon 
don  club  men  expatiate  for  hours  on  what  they  might  have 
done  if  they  hadn't  married — the  beasts !  They  couldn't 
talk  that  way  to  us,  sons  of  Hagar,  out  here  in  this 
unsexed  wilderness !  I'd  tell  '  em  what  it  would  mean 
to  me — to  be  married  to  one  woman!  It  would  mean 
more  to  me  to  be  allowed  to  listen  to  whispered  revela 
tions  from  one  woman's  lips — than " 


The  Blood-Flower  219 

"  Dam'  you,  quiet  down  i  " 

"  Guess  I  better  had." 

"  Shall  we  have  a  hand  at  crib  ?  "  Feeney  asked  softly. 

"  Not  now — please." 

There  was  a  dusky  splash  of  red  in  the  sky  beyond 
the  western  hills,  and  a  faint  red  foam  above.  The  even 
ing  was  soft  and  sweet,  and  tobacco  as  fragrant  as  trop 
ical  islands. 

"Gad!  I'm  red-blooded,"  Finacune  murmured  after 
a  moment.  "  I  could  squeeze  milk  out  of  a  pound  note. 
I'd  like  to  see  a  dog-fight.  If  there's  a  man-fight  to 
morrow,  I'll  throttle  Nookie-san,  slide  down  into  the 
stoke-hold,  and  see  how  this  new  brand  of  fighter  shovels 
hell." 

"  If  you  leave  the  woman  behind,"  Feeney  grumbled, 
"  I'll  go  with  you." 

"  A  man  is  an  awful  animal — when  he's  fit  as  I  am," 
Finacune  added.  "  The  gang  is  certainly  moonstruck 
to-night.  Listen  to  that  ungodly  American  sun-spotter 
sing." 

"There  is  an  island  fair,  set  in  an  eastern  sea; 
There  is  a  maid  keeping  her  tryst  with  me, 
In  the  shade  of  the  palm,  with  a  lover's  delight, 
Where  it's  always  the  golden  day  or  the  silvery  night — 
.    .    .    My  star  will  be  shining,  love, 
For  you  in  the  moonlight  calm, 
So  be  waiting  for  me  by  the  eastern  sea 
In  the  shade  of  the  shelt'ring  palm." 

"  That's  just  the  point — her  star'll  be  shining— only, 
it  may  not,"  Finacune  whispered. 

Feeney  disdained  to  answer.  Presently  Major  Inuki 
appeared  again  and  announced  guilelessly: 


220  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  Gentlema' — my  dear  fren's,  our  gen'ral  express 
himself  prepare  to  greet  your  illustrious  peersonages — 
one  and  every  one — in  his  quarters  at  once.  Would  you 
be  deigned  to  follow  my  poor  leadership  ?  " 

"  Holy  Father ! — where's  my  dress-suit  ?  "  Feeney 
asked  with  a  start. 

"  Such  an  honor  does  not  increase  our  chances  for 
watching  the  next  battle  at  close-range,"  observed 
Finacune. 

Nookie-san  led  them  through  the  dust  past  innumer 
able  battalions,  until  on  a  rising  trail  the  sentries  became 
as  thick  as  fire-flies.  After  a  twenty-minute  walk  they 
reached  the  summit  of  a  commanding  hill.  At  the 
entrance  of  a  large  tent  paper-lanterns  were  hung,  and 
below  in  the  light  Kuroki's  staff  was  gathered.  Felicita 
tions  endured  for  several  moments ;  then  an  inspired  hush 
dominated  all.  The  flap  of  the  tent  was  drawn  aside,  and 
a  small,  gray-haired  man  of  stars  emerged  stiffly.  His 
eyes  were  bent  toward  the  turf  and  thus  he  stood  motion 
less  beneath  the  lanterns  for  several  seconds. 

"  General  Kuroki,"  spoke  Inuki  in  a  low  voice. 

The  general  raised  his  eyes  for  just  an  instant — great, 
tired,  burning,  black  eyes  with  heavy  rolled  lids — bowed 
slightly,  then  backed  into  the  tent. 

"  Now,  there's  a  man  with  no  carnal  lust  in  him," 
Feeney  commented  to  his  companion.  "  He  has  com 
manded  his  wife  and  family  not  to  write  him  from  Japan, 
lest  their  letters  distract  attention  from  his  work  at 
hand." 

"  And  he  drowned  a  thousand  men  crossing  the  Yalu," 
remarked  Finacune. 


The  Blood-Flower 

Bingley  passed  them  with  the  remark,  "  I  wonder  if 
God  has  the  dignity  of  Kuroki  ?  " 

Long  afterward,  when  silence  and  stars  lay  upon  the 
hills,  there  was  still  a  low  whispering  in  the  tent  of 
Feeney  and  Finacune. 

,    "  I  wonder  where  the  great  frieze  coat  is  this  night?  " 
came  with  a  yawn  from  the  old  man. 

"  God  knows,"  Finacune  replied.  "  Alone  in  the  dark 
somewhere — unearthing  great  tales  to  be  printed  under 
a  strange  name.  If  any  one  finds  them,  it  will  be  Dart- 
more,  and  his  roots  will  wither  because  they  are  not  in 

the  Review.     Or "    The  little  man  halted  suddenly. 

He  had  been  about  to  add  that  a  woman  was  apt  to  find 
them.  Instead  he  said,  "  Alone  in  the  dark  somewhere, 
hiding  from  the  wrath  of  the  world — unless  somebody's 
hunted  him  down  to  tell  him  that  he's  clean  and  desirable 
again." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  the  great  frieze  coat  this  night,"  said 
Feeney  in  a  listless  tone,  as  if  he  had  not  listened  to  the 
other. 

"  I'd  like  to  have  been  the  one — to  find  him  for  her." 

"  There  never  was  a  nobler  thing  done  for  a  woman — 
than  Routledge  did,"  the  old  man  went  on,  after  a  pause. 

"  There  never  was  a  nobler  woman,"  breathed  the 
florid  one. 


SEVENTEENTH  CHAPTER 

FEENEY  AND  FINACUNE  ARE  PRIVILEGED  TO 

"READ  THE  FIERY  GOSPEL  WRIT  IN 

BURNISHED  ROWS  OF  STEEL" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Kuroki  was  only  waiting  for 
Oku  and  Nodzu  to  join  him  in  the  great  concentration 
upon  Liaoyang  under  Oyama.  This  battle  was  planned 
to  finish  the  Russians  in  the  field,  as  Togo  was  to  do 
at  sea,  and  Nogi  in  the  Fortress.  Roughly,  the  Japanese 
now  stretched  across  the  peninsula  from  the  mouth  of 
the  Liao  to  the  mouth  of  the  Yalu — a  quarter  of  a  million 
men  with  eyes  on  Liaoyang — Kuroki  on  the  right,  Nodzu 
in  the  centre,  Oku  on  the  left.  Oyama  polished  his 
boots  and  spurs  in  Tokyo,  preparing  to  take  his  rice  and 
tea  in  the  field  as  soon  as  it  was  heated  to  the  proper 
temperature. 

Late  in  June,  Kuroki  awoke  and  began  to  spread  like 
a  gentle  flow  of  lava,  filling  the  hither  defiles  of  the  great 
Shanalin  range,  making  ready  to  take  the  stiff  and  dread 
ful  passes  which  the  Russians  had  fortified  as  the  outer 
protection  of  Liaoyang.  Right  here  it  must  be  interpo 
lated  that  Bingley  had  cut  Kuroki  for  Nodzu's  fourth 
army  a  few  days  before,  when  the  two  forces  had  touched 
wings  for  a  day.  The  "  Horse-killer  "  was  scarcely  gone 
before  Kuroki  encountered  one  of  the  toughest  and 
pluckiest  foes  of  his  stupendous  campaign,  General 
Kellar,  who  gave  him  terrific  fights  at  Fenshui  and 
322 


The  "Fiery  Gospel"  223 

Motien  passes,  and  tried  to  take  them  back  after  they 
were  lost.  Again  at  Yansu,  a  month  later,  the  doughty 
Kellar  disputed  the  last  mountain-trail  to  the  city,  and 
Kuroki  had  to  kill  him  to  get  through.  .  .  .  The 
army  was  growing  accustomed  to  the  civilians,  and  these 
were  days  of  service  for  the  correspondents.  It  was 
given  them  now  to  see  the  great  fighting-machine  of 
Kuroki — that  huge  bulk  of  flying  power — lose  its  pomp 
and  gloss  and  adjust  itself  to  the  field.  It  faded  into  the 
brown  of  the  mountains,  took  on  a  vulpine  leanness  and  a 
nerveless,  soulless  complacence,  like  nothing  else  in  the 
world.  Food  was  king ;  fighting  was  the  big-game  sport ; 
toil  was  toil,  and  death  was  not  the  least  of  benefits.  It 
was  now  August,  and  Kuroki's  part  in  the  Liaoyang 
preliminaries  finished.  A  month  later  the  battle  was  on. 
.  .  .  In  the  gray  morning  light  of  the  twenty-ninth 
of  August,  the  sound  of  distant  batteries  boomed  over 
the  Shanalin  peaks  to  the  ears  of  the  correspondents. 
Finacune  leaped  up  with  a  cry : 

"  Liaoyang  is  on !  And  what  are  we  doing  away  off 
here?" 

"  Smokin'  our  pipes  in  the  mountings,"  Feeney 
answered  huskily,  reaching  for  a  match,  "  '  an'  breathin' 
the  mornin'  cool.' " 

"  We're  lost,"  Finacune  declared  bitterly.  "  I  can 
hear  the  London  experts  howling,  '  Where's  Kuroki  and 
his  lost  army  ? ' ' 

"  Lost,  is  it  ?  Hush !  Come  near  me,  young  man. 
We're  lost,  but  destined  to  appear  in  good  time,"  Feeney 
whispered.  "  I'll  bet  you  an  oyster-stew  to  a  dill-pickle 
that  we  are  the  flankers.  We're  relegated  off  here  to 


224  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

cross  the  river  when  the  moon's  right,  and  to  bore  in  at 
the  railroad  behind  the  city,  while  Oyama  and  Kuropatkin 
are  locking  horns  in  front." 

Old  Feeney,  wise  in  war,  had  hit  upon  the  strategy 
before  the  others ;  although  any  expert  familiar  with  the 
terrain  would  thus  have  planned  the  taking  of  the  city. 
That  night  Kuroki  camped  on  the  south  side  of  the 
Taitse ;  and  on  the  morning  of  the  second  day  following 
was  across  with  seventy  thousand  men.  This  by  the 
grace  of  a  corps  of  insignificant-looking  engineers,  busy 
little  brown  chaps  who  worked  a  miracle  of  pontooning 
— conquered  a  deep  and  rushing  river  without  wetting 
a  foot  hi  Kuroki's  command.  There  had  been  rains,  too, 
and  between  the  showers,  far  salvos  of  cannon  rode  in 
from  the  west  on  the  damp,  jerky  winds. 

There  is  no  place  so  good  as  here  to  drop  a  conven 
tional  figure  of  the  Liaoyang  field.  The  strategy  of  the 
battle  is  simple  as  a  play  in  straight  foot-ball.  Japanese 
and  Russian  linesmen  are  engaged  in  a  furious  struggle 
south  and  southeast  of  the  city.  Imagine  Kuroki,  the 
Japanese  half-back,  breaking  loose  with  the  ball  and 
dashing  around  the  right  end  (crossing  the  Taitse  River) 
and  boring  in  behind  toward  the  Russian  goal — the  rail 
road.  This  threatens  the  Russian  communications.  If 
the  Russian  full-back,  Orloff,  cannot  defend  the  goal, 
the  whole  Russian  line  will  be  jerked  up  and  out  of  the 
city  to  prevent  being  cut  off  from  St.  Petersburg.  This, 
leaves  the  field  and  the  city  to  the  Japanese.  Here  is  the 
simplest  possible  straight  line  sketch  of  the  city,  river, 
railroad,  and  the  position  of  the  fighters  when  the  battle 
began ;  also,  shown  by  the  arrow,  the  sweep  of  Kuroki's 
now  famous  end  run.  [See  drawing  on  next  page.] 


The  "Fiery  Gospel" 

The  midnight  which  ended  August  found  the  intrepid 
flanker  launched  straight  at  the  Russian  railroad  at  the 
point  called  the  Yentai  Collieries,  nine  miles  behind  the 
city. 

"  We're  locked  tight  in  the  Russian  holdings  this 
minute,"  Finacune  whispered,  as  he  rode  beside  the  grim 
veteran. 

"  Where  did  you  think  we  were — on  some  church 
steps  ?  "  Feeney  asked. 


•****•»  <i*~ 

++«"M-»<jjk  »*«•»«.«•»++»+»*  *o* 

-RUSSIAN  ARMY          t+»*»$£  »++  t++.V**o 
+-M-     JAPANESE  ARMY 


It  looked  a  dark  and  dangerous  game  to  the  dapper 
little  man.  The  lure  of  action,  so  strong  at  Home,  often 
turns  cold  at  the  point  of  realization.  Finacune  had  the 
nerves  which  are  the  curse  of  civilization,  and  he  felt  the 
chill  white  hand  of  fear  creeping  along  these  sensitive 
ganglia  just  now  in  the  dark. 

"  I  haven't  a  thing  against  Kuropatkin— only  I  hope 
he  is  a  fool  for  a  night,"  he  observed  presently.  "  Some 
how,  I  don't  feel  cheerful  about  the  fool  part.  He  must 
hear  us  tramping  on  his  back  door-steps  this  way.  Why 
can't  he  spare  enough  men  from  the  city  to  come  out  here 
and  sort  of  outflank  the  flanker?" 
15 


Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  That's  just  his  idea,"  Feeney  replied,  "  but  don't 
forget  that  Oyama  will  keep  him  so  dam'  busy  below 
that  it  will  be  hard  for  him  to  match  us  man  for  man  and 
still  hold  on.  However,  remember  he's  got  the  position, 
and  he  won't  need  to  match  the  Japanese — quite." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Kuropatkin's  far-flung  antennae 
had  followed  Kuroki  well.  The  Russian  chief,  knowing 
the  strength  of  his  front  position  on  the  city,  had  deter 
mined  to  slip  back  and  crush  Kuroki  with  an  overwhelm 
ing  force,  leaving  only  two  corps  of  Siberians,  under 
Zurubaieff,  to  hold  off  Nodzu  and  Oku  from  the  inner 
defenses  of  Liaoyang.  General  Orloff,  who  was  in  com 
mand  at  the  Yentai  Collieries,  where  Kuroki's  flanking 
point  was  aimed,  was  under  orders  to  attack  the  Japanese 
in  flank  at  the  moment  Kuropatkin's  main  force  appeared 
to  hit  the  Japanese  in  full.  There  was  the  constant  roar 
of  big  guns  in  Orloff's  ears  in  that  dawning  of  September 
first — a  rainy  dawn.  Also  his  own  troops  were  moving 
along  the  railroad.  Another  thing,  there  had  been  a 
vodka-train  broken  into  the  night  before  by  his  own  men. 

Orloff  thought  he  saw  Kuropatkin  coming,  and  set 
out  prematurely.  Kuroki  was  concealed  in  the  fields  of 
ripe  millet,  and  turned  to  the  work  of  slaughter  with 
much  enthusiasm,  wondering  at  the  weakness  of  the 
enemy.  This  slaughter  of  Orloff,  which  lost  the  battle 
for  the  Russians,  Feeney  and  Finacune  saw. 

"  There's  eighteen  burnt  matches  in  your  coat  pocket, 
my  young  friend,"  said  Feeney,  "  and  your  pipe  would 
light  better  if  you  put  some  smokin'  in  it — in  the  bowl, 
y'know.  For  what  do  you  save  the  burnt  matches  ?  " 

Finacune  grinned  shyly.    "  Wait  till  the  fire  starts — 


The  "Fiery  Gospel"  227 

I'll  be  warmer.  I'm  always  like  this  at  first — like  the 
little  boy  who  tried  to  cure  bees  with  rheumatism." 

"  Something's  wrong  with  the  Russians,"  Feeney 
declared  in  low  excitement.  "  We  should  all  be  dead  by 
this  time — if  they  are  going  to  whip  Kuroki.  Oh,  war — 
war  is  a  devil  of  a  thing !  "  he  added  flippantly.  "  We're 
crushing  the  farmers'  grain." 

"  Shut  up,  you  fire-eater.  Haven't  you  any  reverence? 
I'm  preparing  myself  for  death." 

That  instant  they  heard  a  low  command  from  an 
unseen  Japanese  officer,  and  a  long  drawn  trumpet-cry. 
The  Japanese  leaped  up  from  the  grain.  All  was  a 
tangle.  Feeney,  grabbing  Finacune's  arm,  seized  the 
moment  to  break  from  Major  Inuki  and  the  others,  and 
rushed  forward  to  the  open  with  the  infantry. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said  excitedly.  "  We're  foot-loose ! 
Come  on,  my  little  angel  brother,  and  play  tag  with  these 
children !  .  .  .  '  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers ! ' 

Never  a  wild  rose  of  boyhood  smelled  half  so  sweet 
to  Finacune  as  the  ancient  soil  of  Asia  that  moment,  but 
he  was  whipped  forward  by  certain  emotions,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  Feeney  and  the  avalanche  of  Japanese.  They 
reached  the  edge  of  the  grain  and  met  the  first  gust  of 
OrlofFs  rifle  steel.  Down  they  went  for  the  volleys,  and 
that  moment  perceived  a  most  amazing  trick  of  a  shell. 
A  little  knot  of  ten  Japanese  were  running  forward  just 
before  them  when  there  was  a  sudden  whistling  shriek. 
The  ten  were  lost  for  a  second  in  a  chariot  of  fire.  When 
it  cleared  only  one  Japanese  remained  standing. 

"  That  Russian  gunner  bowled  a  pretty  spare,"  grimly 
observed  Feeney.  "  Come,  get  up,  lad.  The  volleys  are 
over." 


228  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  Not  this  Finacune.  I'm  not  short-sighted.  I'm 
going  to  hold  fast  to  this  sweet  piece  of  mainland  just 
now.  Besides " 

The  little  man  burst  into  a  nervous  laugh  and  glanced 
at  his  foot.  Then  he  stiffened  into  a  sitting  posture. 
Feeney  looked  him  over.  His  hat  was  gone,  scalp  bleed 
ing,  his  shirt-sleeve  burst  open  as  if  it  had  been  wet 
brown  paper,  and  the  sole  of  his  left  shoe  torn  away 
clean. 

"  Queer  about  that  shrapnel,"  he  mumbled.  "  I'm 
interested  in  shrapnel  any  way.  I  haven't  got  any  more 
toe-nails  on  that  foot  than  a  bee." 

Meanwhile,  Kuroki  was  crushing  the  Orloff  member 
with  a  force  destined  to  wreck  the  whole  Russian 
nervous-system.  Out  of  the  grain  he  poured  torrents  of 
infantry  which  smote  the  Russian  column  in  a  score  of 
places  at  once. 

"  Did  you  ever  put  your  ear  to  the  ground  during  a 
battle,  Feeney  ?  "  the  other  asked  wistfully.  "  It  sounds 
aw'fly  funny — funnier  than  sea-shells.  Let's  try." 

Feeney  did  not  answer.  He  was  watching  the  dis 
order  which  swept  over  the  Russian  lines.  It  had  changed 
into  a  deluge  tossing  back  toward  the  Collieries.  There 
was  a  fury  even  in  the  clouds  of  powder  smoke  that 
seemingly  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  winds.  They 
darted,  stretched,  and  tore  apart  from  the  whipped-line 
with  some  devilish  volition  of  their  own. 

"  There'll  be  excitement  presently,"  the  veteran 
remarked. 

The  other  had  risen  and  was  clutching  his  arm,  his 
bare  foot  lifted  from  the  ground.  He  was  properly 
stimulated  by  the  action,  but  kept  up  a  more  or  less 


The  "Fiery  Gospel"  2S9 

incessant  chattering,  his  brain  working  as  if  driven  by 
cocaine. 

"  Ex — excitement !  This  is  a  sedative,  I  believe. 
Let's  lie  down,  you  bald-headed  fatalist " 

"  Don't  dare  to.  Look  at  your  foot.  Dangerous 
below.  Ricochets  hug  the  turf.  .  .  .  Livin'  God! 
they're  going  to  throw  out  cavalry  upon  us!  They're 
going  to  heave  cavalry  against  Kuroki's  point!  Bloom 
up,  little  man.  Here's  where  the  most  nerveless  of  the 
white  races  smite  the  most  nervous  of  the  yellow — and 
on  horses !  " 

"  I'm  bloomin'  on  one  foot,"  said  Finacune. 

Kuropatkin,  apprised  of  Orloff's  error,  was  thunder 
ing  his  divisions  up  the  railroad  at  double-time  toward 
the  Collieries,  but,  despairing  to  reach  the  blundering 
Orloff  in  time,  had  ordered  his  cavalry  railway-guards  to 
charge  the  enemy.  .  .  .  They  came  on  now  with 
mediaeval  grandeur,  a  dream  of  chivalry,  breaking  through 
gaps  of  Orloff's  disordered  infantry — to  turn  the  point  of 
the  Japanese  flanker.  Splendid  squadrons!  ...  A 
curse  dropped  from  Feeney's  gray  lips. 

"  They're  going  to  murder  the  cavalry  to  put  red 
blood  into  that  rotten  foot-outfit,"  he  said. 

Finacune's  face  was  colorless.  He  did  not  answer. 
The  sound  of  bullets  in  the  air  was  like  the  winging  of  a 
plague  of  locusts.  Often  the  two  huddled  together,  allow 
ing  a  gasping  battalion  to  leap  past  them  toward  the 
front.  Kuroki  was  breaking  his  command  into  frag 
ments  and  rolling  them  forward  like  swells  of  the  sea. 
His  front-rankers  dropped  to  their  knees  to  fire;  then 
dashed  forward  a  little  way  to  repeat — all  with  inhuman 
precision.  Feeney's  field-glass  brought  out  their  work. 


230  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

In  a  mile-long  dust-cloud,  the  Russian  cavalry  thundered 
forward  like  a  tornado. 

The  Cossacks  swept  into  Kuroki's  zone  of  fire. 
Feeney  heard  his  companion  breathe  fast,  and  turned  his 
head.  The  Word  man  was  staring  into  the  heart  of  the 
Cossack  charge,  his  fears  forgotten,  fascinated  unto  mad 
ness.  The  earth  roared  with  hoofs,  and  the  air  was  rent 
with  guns.  On  came  the  cavalry  until  it  reached  Kuroki's 
point  and  halted  it ;  but  upon  the  Cossacks  now  from 
the  countless  Japanese  skirmish-lines  were  hurled  waves 
of  flying  metal — waves  that  dashed  over  the  Russian 
horsemen  as  the  sundered  seas  rushed  together  upon 
Pharaoh's  hosts. 

"  It's  like  a  biograph,"  came  from  Finacune. 
Kuroki  was  checked ;  his  van  ridden  down.  The  Rus 
sian  horse,  cumbered  with  its  dead,  and  taking  an  enfi 
lading  fire  from  half  the  Japanese  command,  was  now 
ordered  to  retire.  Only  the  skeletons  of  the  glorious 
squadrons  obeyed.  Kuroki  was  stopped  indeed — stopped 
to  thrust  an  impediment  aside.  He  rose  from  his  knees, 
fastened  a  new  point  to  his  plow,  and  bored  in  toward 
the  railway  upon  the  strewn  and  trampled  grain-fields. 
Already  the  hospital  corps  was  gathering  in  the  endless 
sheaves  of  wounded. 

"  One  can  tell  the  dead  by  the  way  they  lie,"  Finacune 
said  vaguely.  "  They  lie  crosswise  and  spoil  the 
symmetry." 

Orloff  was  steadied  a  trifle  by  the  cavalry  sacrifice, 
and  turned  an  erratic  but  deadly  fire  upon  the  Japanese. 
.  .  .  At  this  instant  Major  Inuki  pounced  upon  the 
two  correspondents  and  carried  them  back  toward  head 
quarters.  He  made  very  many  monkey-sounds;  was 


The  "Fiery  Gospel" 

quite  unintelligible  from  excitement;  in  fact,  at  the 
thought  of  these  two  being  suffered  to  see  so  much  alone. 
If  their  heads  had  been  cameras,  straightway  would 
they  have  been  smashed.  .  .  . 

Practically  they  had  seen  it  all.  Kuroki's  work  for 
that  September  day  was  done.  Shortly  after  the  retire 
ment  of  the  cavalry,  he  received  a  despatch  from  Oyama 
saying  that  Kuropatkin  had  ordered  a  general  retreat. 
Kuroki's  end-run  had  won  the  battle  for  Oyama;  Orloff 
had  lost  it  for  Kuropatkin.  The  latter,  perceiving  the 
havoc  at  the  Collieries  when  he  came  up  with  his  big 
force,  decided  not  to  attack  the  victorious  flanker. 
Instead,  he  set  out  for  Mukden,  and  commanded  Zuru- 
baieff,  the  rear-guard,  to  pull  up  out  of  the  city,  cross 
the  Taitse,  and  burn  his  bridges  behind  him. 

"  He's  quite  a  little  ornament-merchant,  this  Kuroki," 
Finacune  observed  that  afternoon,  holding  a  very  sore 
foot  in  his  hands. 

"  He'd  put  out  hell — he's  too  cold  to  burn,"  replied 
Feeney. 


EIGHTEENTH  CHAPTER 

BINGLEY  BREAKS  AWAY  FROM  THE  CAMP  OF  THE 

CIVILIANS  TO  WATCH  "THE  LEAN-LOCKED 

RANKS  GO  ROARING  DOWN  TO  DIE" 

WHILE  Feeney  and  Finacune  were  flanking  with 
Kuroki,  the  "  Horse-killer  "  was  with  Nodzu,  whose  busi 
ness  it  was  to  charge  the  Russian  centre  before  Liao- 
yang.  Bingley  had  not  shifted  commands  without  a  good 
reason.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  get  to  an  uncen- 
sored  cable  after  the  battle  was  over,  and  Nodzu  was 
nearer  the  outlet  of  the  war-zone.  Moreover,  it  was. said 
that  the  civilian  contingent  with  Nodzu  was  not  sub 
jected  to  the  smothering  system,  quite  to  the  same  extent 
as  that  with  the  flanker,  Kuroki. 

Nodzu,  himself,  did  not  appeal  to  Bingley.  He 
seemed  like  a  nice,  polite  little  person  of  the  sort  the 
"Horse-killer"  had  observed  serving  behind  curio-counters 
in  Tokyo.  His  voice  was  light,  and  his  beard  wasn't  iron- 
gray.  Bingley  remarked  that  a  marooned  painter  would 
have  a  hard  time  gathering  a  pastelle-brush  from  Nodzu's 
beard,  and  he  noted  with  contempt  that  the  general  spoke 
drawing-room  Japanese  to  his  staff.  The  generals  whom 
Bingley  respected,  roared.  They  not  only  split  infini 
tives,  but  they  forked  them  with  flame. 

All    three    officers    under    Field-Marshal    Oyama — 

Kuroki  flanking  on  the  right,  Nodzu  bearing  in  on  the 

Russian  centre,  and  Oku  pushing  up  the  railroad  on  the 

left — had  to  fight  their  way  to  the  positions  from  which 

£32 


Bingley  Breaks  Away  233 

the  three  finally  took  the  city.  Many  lesser  towns  and 
some  very  difficult  passes  were  picked  up  on  the  way. 
For  instance,  Oku,  the  left  blade  of  the  crescent,  who 
was  being  watched  by  the  chief  male  figure  in  this  narra 
tive  (as  Bingley  was  watching  Nodzu),  changed  the 
flags  at  Kaiping,  Tashekao,  and  Newchwang  on  the  way, 
Chinese  towns  of  filth  and  fatness;  and  shoved  before 
him  in  an  indignant  turkey-trot  Generals  Stackelberg 
and  Zurubaieff. 

Baking  hot  weather,  and  Liaoyang  ahead !  Nogi  was 
thundering  behind  at  the  fortress  of  Port  Arthur;  Togo 
was  a  red  demon  in  smoky  crashing  seas;  blood  of  the 
Bear  already  smeared  the  Sun  flag,  and  the  blood-flower 
was  in  bloom  in  Manchuria. 

Bingley  felt  the  floods  of  hate  stir  and  heat  within 
him  on  the  morning  of  August  twenty-fourth,  when  over 
the  hills  from  the  right,  which  was  eastward,  sounded 
the  Beginning — Kuroki  in  cannonade.  Feeney  and  Fina- 
cune  had  had  the  luck  to  beat  him  to  real  action.  The 
next  day  Oku  took  up  the  bombardment  on  the  left.  It 
was  not  until  the  following  morn  that  Nodzu  leaped  to 
his  guns,  and  the  hot  winds  brought  to  the  nostrils  of 
the  "  Horse-killer  "  the  pungent  breath  of  powder. 

The  correspondents  were  held  back  in  the  smoke  as 
usual.  Five  months  in  the  field,  and  they  had  not  yet 
caught  up  with  the  war.  Again,  on  the  second  day  of 
Nodzu's  action,  the  correspondents  were  left  behind 
under  a  guard  who  was  extremely  courteous.  This  was 
more  than  white  flesh  could  bear.  The  civilians  implored, 
demande'L  It  was  remarkable  that  Bingley  did  not  mix 
strongly  in  this  rebellion.  He  was  planning  carefully, 
desperately,  to  be  in  at  the  end,  and  showed  the  courage 


234  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

to  wait.  He  realized  that  the  battle  was  far  from  ended 
yet;  even  though  Kuroki  was  mixing  hand-to-hand  in 
the  east,  Oku  in  the  west  closing  in  over  barriers  of 
blood,  and  Nodzu  in  the  centre  engaged  daily  with  a 
ten-mile  front  of  duelists — a  bare-handed,  hot-throated 
fiend,  chucking  his  dead  behind  him  for  elbow-room. 

Bingley  studied  maps  and  strategy — not  from  Nodzu's 
standpoint  alone,  but  from  the  whole.  What  would  he 
do  if  he  were  Field-Marshal  Oyama? 

The  theatre  of  war  was  dark  on  the  morning  of 
August  twenty-ninth,  but  in  mid-afternoon  Nodzu  began 
firing — firing  at  nothing!  He  stood  still  and  belched 
thunder,  as  if  it  were  something  to  be  rid  of;  ripping 
open  the  very  kernels  of  sound,  and  making  the  summer 
afternoon  no  fit  place  for  butterflies.  Bingley's  eyes  were 
very  bright.  This  tallied  with  one  of  his  hypotheses. 
It  was  a  demonstration,  under  the  cover  of  which  his 
old  friend  Kuroki  was  to  start  a  flanking  movement. 

That  night  the  smileless  young  giant  worked  long  in 
his  tent.  Stretched  full-length  upon  his  blankets,  a 
lantern  by  his  side,  he  wrote  hard  in  his  note-books  and 
drew  maps  of  the  flying  flanker,  whom  Feeney  and 
Finacune  were  now  following.  He  showed  these  maps, 
all  dated  to  the  hour,  in  London  afterward,  with  the 
remark  that  he  had  divined  the  strategy  of  Liaoyang 
before  the  battle. 

He  glanced  at  his  watch,  at  last,  and  at  his  field  outfit, 
which  was  all  packed  and  in  order.  Then  he  slept  until 
dawn.  No  one  slept  after  that,  since  Nodzu  was  up 
with  the  first  light,  like  a  boy  with  a  new  cannon  on  the 
morning  of  the  Fourth.  Bingley  was  missed  at  break 
fast.  His  Korean  coolies  knew  nothing,  except  that  they 


Bingley  Breaks  Away  235 

had  been  ordered  to  take  care  of  the  Bingley  property 
and  wait  for  orders.  The  "  Horse-killer "  had  made  a 
clean  departure  with  a  good  mount  and  nothing  but  his 
saddle-bags.  Still,  no  one  fathomed  his  audacity.  Con 
fidently,  it  was  expected  that  he  would  be  returned  in 
short  order  by  some  of  the  Japanese  commanders  who 
happened  to  read  the  civilian  insignia  flaring  upon  his 
sleeve.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Bingley  quickly  would  have 
been  overhauled  had  he  not  brooded  so  long  and  so  well 
upon  the  time.  The  middle  Japanese  army  was  too  busy 
that  morning  to  think  of  one  daring  civilian. 

Bingley's  plan  was  this :  To  watch  what  he  could  of 
the  battle,  unfettered,  making  his  way  gradually  west 
ward  behind  Oku  until  the  end,  or  until  such  time  as 
he  mastered  the  color  and  saw  the  end;  then  to  ride 
alone  down  the  railroad,  nearly  to  Fengmarong;  there 
to  leave  his  horse,  cross  the  Liao  River,  and  travel  on 
foot  down  to  Wangcheng.  '  He  planned  to  catch  the 
Chinese  Eastern  at  Wangcheng  and  make  the  day's 
journey  to  Shanhaikwan  beyond  the  Wall,  where  the 
Japanese  could  not  censor  his  message.  In  a  word, 
Bingley's  plan  was  to  stake  all  on  reaching  a  free-cable 
before  any  other  man,  and  to  put  on  that  cable  the  first 
and  greatest  story  of  the  greatest  battle  of  the  war. 

That  was  a  day  in  which  Bingley  truly  lived.  A  mile 
behind  Nodzu's  reserve,  he  spurred  his  horse  down  into 
a  tight  darkened  ravine,  and  tethered  the  beast  long  to 
crop  the  pale  grass  blades  thinly  scattered  throughout 
the  sunless  crevasse.  Marking  well  the  topography  of 
the  place,  so  that  he  could  find  it  again  in  anything  but 
darkness,  Bingley  moved  back  toward  the  valleys  of 
action.  Nodzu  was  hammering  the  impregnable  Rus- 


236  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

sian  position  before  the  city  from  the  hills,  and  charging 
down  at  intervals  great  masses  of  infantry  to  hold  the 
main  Russian  force  in  their  intrenchments  before  the 
city,  and  thus  to  prevent  the  Russian  general  from  send 
ing  back  a  large  enough  portion  of  his  army  to  crush  or 
outflank  the  Japanese  flanker. 

Noon  found  Bingley  still  at  large  and  across  a  big 
valley,  now  almost  empty  of  troops.  He  was  forced  to 
cross  one  more  ridge  to  command  the  battle-picture. 
This  required  a  further  hour,  and  he  sat  down  to  rest 
upon  the  shoulder  of  a  lofty,  thickly  timbered  hill  which 
overlooked  the  city  for  which  the  nations  met — a  huge, 
sprawled  Chinese  town,  lost  for  moments  at  a  time  in 
the  smoke-fog.  The  river  behind  was  obscured  entirely; 
still,  the  placing  of  the  whole  battle  array  was  cleared  to 
him  in  a  moment.  All  his  mapping  and  brooding  had 
helped  him  marvelously  to  this  quick  grasp  of  the  field. 
He  wished  that  he  could  cable  the  picture  of  the  city, 
the  river,  the  railroad,  the  hills,  just  as  he  saw  them 
now — so  that  London  might  also  see  through  Bingley 
eyes.  As  for  the  rest — Nodzu's  great  thundering  guns 
and  his  phantom  armies  moving  below  in  the  white 
powder-reek — he  could  write  that.  .  .  . 

"  But  I've  got  to  get  a  strip  of  real  action — I've  got 
to  see  the  little  beasts  go,"  he  muttered  at  length.  "  It's 
a  long  chance,  but  I've  got  to  get  a  touch  of  the  blood- 
end — to  do  it  right.  It  is  as  necessary  as  the  lay  of 
the  land." 

And  down  he  went,  forgetting  fear  and  passing  time , 
even  during  certain  moments,  forgetting  the  outer  world 
that  would  cry,  "  Bingley !  Bingley !  "  when  he  was 
through.  .  .  .  Deeper  and  deeper  he  sank  into  the 


Bingley  Breaks  Away  237 

white  mist  of  smoke  which  five  minutes  before  had  been 
torn  by  flame  and  riven  with  rifle  crashes. 

It  was  a  moment  of  lull  between  Nodzu's  infantry 
charges.  A  land  current  of  air  cleared  the  low  distance. 
The  southern  line  of  intrenched  Russian  infantry  looked 
less  than  a  mile  away.  Behind  them,  the  land  was  pitted 
and  upheaved  with  defenses  to  the  very  wall  of  the  city, 
having  the  look,  as  Bingley  observed,  as  the  wind  swiftly 
cleared  away  the  smoke,  of  the  skin  of  a  small-pox  con 
valescent.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  in  the  Russian 
works,  but  his  quick  eye  marked  that  shrapnel  was 
emplaced  on  the  higher  mounds.  .  .  .  Had  he  lived 
a  thousand  years  for  the  single  purpose  of  viewing  a 
battle — hundreds  of  acres  of  embattled  thousands  strain 
ing  in  unbridled  devilment;  a  valley  soaked  and  strewn 
with  life  essences,  yet  swarming  with  more  raw  material 
for  murder — he  could  not  have  judged  his  advent  better. 
It  was  the  thirtieth  of  August — the  day  that  Nodzu  and 
Oku  began  their  un-Christly  sacrifices  to  hold  Kuropatkin 
in  the  city  and  in  front,  while  Kuroki  flanked. 

Suddenly — it  was  like  a  tornado,  prairie  fire,  and  stam 
pede  rolled  into  one — Nodzu  of  the  pastelle-brush  beard 
called  up  his  swarm  from  thicket,  hummock,  gulley,  ditch, 
from  the  very  earth,  and  launched  it  forward  against  the 
first  blank  ridge  of  the  Russians.  This  brown  cyclone 
tore  over  Bingley  of  the  Thames  and  across  the  ruffled 
valley.  The  "  Horse-killer  "  sat  in  awe.  There  was  not 
yet  a  shot.  The  Russian  trenches  had  the  look  of 
desertion. 

"  Hell !  "  he  snapped  viciously.  "  Those  trenches 
are  abandoned.  Kuropatkin  might  as  well  be  cooling  his 


238  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

toes  in  Lake  Baikal  for  all  Nodzu  will  find  there,  and  he's 
rushing  as  if " 

At  this  instant  the  Russian  works  were  rubbed  out  of 
vision  in  a  burst  of  white  smoke,  and  the  sound  of  Rus 
sian  bullets  was  like  the  swooping  of  ten  thousand  night- 
hawks.  ...  A  terrific  crash,  a  blast  of  dust,  burnt 
powder,  filings,  sickening  gases — and  that  which  a 
moment  ago  was  a  dashing  young  captain  with  upraised 
sword  was  now  wet  rags  and  dripping  fragments  of  pulp. 

"  Shrapnel,"  said  Bingley.  "  He's  happy  now.  He 
was  playing  to  a  gallery  of  Samurai  saints — that  little 
officer.  .  .  .  Nervy  devils  all — never  doubt  it.  ... 
But  we're  walloped — walloped  sure  as  hell.  We  can 
never  take  those  works." 

The  position  of  the  enemy  was  now  obscured  by 
trembling  terraces  of  white  smoke,  out  of  which  poured 
countless  streams  of  death,  literally  spraying  Nodzu's 
command,  as  firemen  play  their  torrents  upon  a  burning 
building.  A  rat  couldn't  have  lived  out  a  full  minute  in 
the  base  of  that  valley.  The  Japanese  left  a  terrible 
tribute,  but  the  few  sped  on  and  upward  to  the  first  line 
of  Russian  entrenchments.  A  peculiar  memory  recurred 
to  Bingley.  Once  in  London  he  had  seen  a  runaway  team 
of  huge  grays  attached  to  a  loaded  coal-cart.  The  tail 
board  of  the  cart  jarred  loose,  and  the  contents  streamed 
out  behind  as  the  horses  ran.  So  the  hard-hit  streamed 
out  from  the  Japanese  charge  as  it  passed  over  the  base 
of  the  valley. 

Even  as  the  maddest  of  the  Japanese  survivors  were 
about  to  flood  over  the  first  embankment,  it  was  fringed 
with  bayonets  as  a  wall  with  broken  glass ;  and  along  the 
length  of  the  next  higher  trenches  shot  a  ragged  ring  of 


Bingley  Breaks  Away  239 

smoke — clots  of  white  strung  like  pearls.  ...  As  a 
train  boring  into  a  mountain  is  stopped,  so  was  Nodzu's 
brown  swarm  halted,  lifted,  and  hurled  back. 

"  The  little  brown  dogs !  "  observed  Bingley  with  joy 
ful  amazement.  "  Why,  they'd  keep  the  British  army 
busy !  .  .  .  And  they  smile,  dam'  'em — they  smile !  " 

This  last  referred  to  the  dead  and  wounded  which 
the  hospital  corps  was  now  bringing  back.  .  .  . 
From  out  of  the  welter,  a  new  charge  formed  and  failed. 
Again — even  Bingley  was  shaken  by  the  slaughter  and 
his  organs  stuck  together — Nodzu  hurled  a  third  torrent 
of  the  Samurai  up  that  unconquerable  roll  of  earth.  It 
curled  like  a  feather  in  a  flame,  diminished,  and  faltered 
back.  .  .  . 

The  day  was  ending — Bingley's  gorgeous,  memorable 
day.  He  had  travelled  twenty-five  miles  on  foot ;  he  had 
caught  up  with  the  Japanese  army  after  five  months  in 
the  field ;  he  had  seen  Nodzu  charge  and  Zurubaieff  hold ; 
he  had  seen  the  wounded  who  would  not  cry,  and  the 
dead  who  would  not  frown. 

The  whole  was  a  veritable  disease  in  his  veins.  The 
day  had  burned,  devoured  him.  He  was  tired  enough 
to  sleep  in  a  tree,  chilled  from  spent  energy ;  so  hungry 
that  he  could  have  eaten  horn  or  hoof;  but  over  all  he 
was  mastered  by  the  thought  of  Bingley  and  his  work — 
the  free  cable,  the  story,  the  Thames,  the  battle,  Bingley, 
the  first  and  greatest  story,  acclaim  of  the  world,  the 
world  by  the  horns !  So  his  brain  ran,  and  far  back  in 
his  brain  the  films  of  carnage  were  sorted,  filed,  and 
labelled — living,  wounded,  dead ;  the  voices  of  the  Japan 
ese  as  they  ran-,  Russian-pits  from  which  death  spread, 
shrapnel  emplacements  which  exploded  hell;  barbed 


240  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

entanglements  spitting  the  Japanese  for  leisure-slaying, 
as  the  butcher-bird  hangs  up  its  living  meat  to  keep  it 
fresh  for  the  hunger-time;  the  long,  quick-moving,  bur 
nished  guns  that  caught  the  sun,  when  the  smoke  cleared, 
and  reflected  it  like  a  burning-glass — such  were  the 
details  of  the  hideous  panorama  in  Bingley's  brain. 

The  chief  of  his  troubles  was  that  Liaoyang  still  held. 
He  had  always  laughed  at  the  Russians,  and  looked  for 
ward  to  the  time  when  he  should  watch  the  British  beat 
them  back  forever  from  India.  The  valor  of  the  stolid, 
ox-like  holding  angered  him  now.  Suppose  Liaoyang 
should  not  be  taken!  It  would  spoil  his  story  and  hold 
him  in  the  field  longer  than  he  cared  to  stay.  He  had 
but  scant  provisions  for  two  days.  He  planned  to  be  off 
for  the  free  cable  to-morrow  night. 

"  It's  going  to  rain,"  he  gasped,  as  he  let  himself  down 
at  nightfall  into  his  ravine.  He  heard  the  nicker  of  the 
horse  below.  It  did  not  come  to  him  with  any  spirit  of 
welcome,  for  Bingley  was  sufficient  unto  himself,  but  with 
the  thought  that  he  must  keep  the  beast  alive  for  the 
race  to  the  cable  after  the  battle. 

"  Yes,  it's  going  to  rain,"  he  repeated.  "  You  can 
count  on  rain  after  artillery  like  to-day.  .  .  .  Living 
God !  I  thought  I  knew  war  before,  but  it  was  all  spar 
row-squabbling  until  to-day ! " 

He  found  his  saddle-bags  safely  in  the  cache  where 
he  had  left  them — this  with  a  gulp  of  joy,  for  the  little 
food  he  had  was  in  them.  Crackers,  sardines,  a  drink  of 
brandy  that  set  his  empty  organism  to  drumming  like 
a  partridge.  It  also  whetted  his  appetite  to  a  paring 
edge,  but  he  spared  his  ration  and  smoked  his  hunger 
away.  Then  in  the  last  drab  of  day,  and  in  the  rain,  he 


Bingley  Breaks  Away  241 

cut  grasses  and  branches,  piling  them  within  the  reach  of 
his  horse.  A  stream  of  water  began  to  trickle  presently 
down  the  rocks  when  the  shower  broke.  Bingley  drank 
deeply,  and  caught  many  ponchos  full  afterward  for  his 
mount.  Later  he  fell  asleep,  shivering,  and  dreamed  that 
the  devil  was  lashing  the  world's  people — a  nation  at  a 
time — into  pits  of  incandescence.  The  savagery  of  the 
dream  aroused  him,  and  he  became  conscious  of  a  strange 
ness  in  his  ears.  It  was  the  silence,  and  it  pained  like 
rarefied  air.  Wet,  stiffened,  deathly  cold,  he  fell  asleep 
again. 

The  next  day,  the  thirty-first,  and  the  worst  of  the 
battle,  Bingley  curved  about  Oku's  rear  to  the  railroad 
which  marked  for  him  a  short  cut  to  the  outer  world. 
Another,  that  day,  watched  Oku  closely  as  he  forced  the 
Russian  right  wing  to  face  the  Japanese,  but  Bingley, 
even  from  a  distance,  was  charged  and  maddened  by  the 
dynamics  of  the  action.  .  .  . 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  a  little  to  the  west  of  the  rail 
way,  he  stopped  to  finish  his  food  and  gather  forage  for 
his  horse,  when  over  the  crest  of  a  low  hill  appeared  a 
tall  human  figure.  The  Japanese  put  no  such  giants  in  the 
field,  and  Bingley  was  startled  by  a  certain  familiarity 
of  movement. 

The  man  approached,  a  white  man.  Chill,  weakness, 
and  hatred  welled  suddenly  in  Bingley's  veins.  He  was 
not  alone  on  the  road  to  a  free  cable.  The  man  he  feared 
most  in  the  world  was  entered  in  the  race  with  him — 
the  man  he  had  seen  last  at  the  Army  and  Navy  recep 
tion,  and  roughed  and  insulted,  nearly  three  years 
before. 

Routledge  smiled,  but  spoke  no  word,     Bingley  re- 

16 


£42  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

garded  the  strong,  strange  profile,  haggard,  darkened  as 
a  storm  arena.  He  saddled  savagely  and  rode  after  the 
other.  It  was  fifty-five  miles  to  Wangcheng,  where  he 
meant  to  catch  the  Chinese  Eastern  for  Shanhaikwan 
to-morrow  morning — fifty-five  miles  in  the  dark,  over 
rain-softened  roads. 

"  Hell !  he  can't  make  it  on  foot,"  Bingley  muttered. 
"  I'll  beat  him  to  the  train." 

And  yet  he  was  angered  and  irritated  with  the  reflec 
tion  that  the  man  ahead  had  never  yet  been  beaten. 


NINETEENTH  CHAPTER 

NOREEN  CARDINEGH,  ENTERING  A  JAPANESE  HOUSE 
AT  EVENTIDE,  IS  CONFRONTED  BY  THE  VISI 
BLE  THOUGHT-FORM  OF  HER  LOVER 

NOREEN  CARDINEGH  buried  her  father  alone.  At  least, 
those  besides  herself  who  took  any  part  in  the  last  service 
for  the  famous  correspondent  were  only  Japanese  hired 
for  the  manual  labor.  To  the  English  who  were  still  at 
the  hotel,  eager  to  assist  the  woman,  and  charged  to  do 
so  by  Feeney,  Finacune,  and  Trollope  before  they  left, 
the  morning  was  sensational.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
scarcely  any  one  had  been  admitted  to  the  Cardinegh  room 
for  the  past  two  days,  Talliaferro  and  others  had  arranged 
for  the  funeral.  They  were  abroad  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  found  the  formality  over.  .  .  .  The 
Japanese  clerk  told  them  all.  At  her  request,  he  had 
made  arrangements  with  a  Tokyo  director  of  such  affairs. 
The  body  had  been  taken  out  at  dawn.  Miss  Cardinegh 
had  followed  in  her  rickshaw.  A  place  had  been  secured 
in  the  Kameido  gardens — very  beautiful  now  in  the  cloud 
of  cherry  blossoms.  She  had  preferred  a  Buddhist  to  a 
Shinto  priest;  refusing  the  services  of  an  American  or 
English  missionary.  The  clerk  explained  that  he  was 
permitted  to  tell  these  things  now.  .  .  .  Possibly 
Miss  Cardinegh  would  see  one  or  two  of  her  friends  at 
this  time.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  was  in  her  room. 

"  Come,"  she  said  in  a  low  trailing  tone,  in  response 
to  Talliaferro's  knock. 

243 


244  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Noreen  was  sitting  by  the  window.  The  big  room  had 
been  put  in  order.  The  morning  was  very  still.  The 
woman  was  dry-eyed,  but  white  as  a  flower.  She  held 
out  her  hand  to  Talliaferro  and  tried  to  smile.  .  .  . 
Strangely,  he  thought  of  her  that  moment  as  one  of  the 
queens  of  the  elder  drama — a  queen  of  stirring  destiny, 
whose  personal  history  was  all  interpenetrated  with 
national  life,  and  whom  some  pretender  had  caused  to  be 
imprisoned  in  a  tower.  This  was  like  Talliaferro. 

"  We  were  all  ready  and  so  eager  to  help  you,  Miss 
Cardinegh,"  he  began.  "  You  know,  some  of  the  older  of 
the  British  correspondents  have  dared  to  feel  a  proprie 
tary  interest  in  all  that  concerns  you.  Why  did  you 
disappoint  us  so?"  . 

"  I  did  not  want  anything  done  for  him- — that  would 
be  done  on  my  account,"  she  said  slowly.  "  It  was 
mine  to  do — as  his  heritage  is  mine.  I  only  ask  you  to 
think — not  that  anything  can  extenuate — but  I  want  you 
to  think  that  it  was  not  my  father,  but  his  madness." 

"  We  all  undersand  that — even  those  who  do  not 
understand  all  that  happened." 

"  The  tragedy  is  the  same.  .  .  .  Ah,  God,  how 
I  wish  all  the  fruits  might  be  mine — not  Japan's,  not 
Russia's !  " 

He  started  to  speak,  to  uproot  from  her  mind  this 
crippling  conception,  but  she  raised  her  hand. 

"  You  cannot  make  me  see  it  differently,  Mr.  Tallia 
ferro,"  she  said  tensely.  "  I  have  had  much  time  to 
think — to  see  it  all !  You  are  very  good — all  of  you. 
One  thing,  I  pray  you  will  do  for  me." 

"  You  have  but  to  speak  it,  Miss  Cardinegh." 

"  When  you  take  the  field — all  of  you,  wherever  you 


A  Japanese  House  at  Eventide         245 

go — watch  and  listen  for  any  word  of  Mr.  Routledge. 
.  .  .  He  may  be  the  last  to  hear  that  he  is  vindicated. 
Follow  any  clue  to  find  him.  Tell  him  the  truth — tell 
him  to  come  to  me !  " 

Peter  Pellen's  "  Excalibur "  accepted  the  mission, 
declaring  that  he  would  faithfully  impress  it  upon  the 
others  with  the  second  army,  shortly  to  leave ;  as  Feeney 
and  Finacune  certainly  would  do  with  the  first.  And 
so  he  left  her,  one  of  the  coldest  and  dryest  men  out  of 
London;  and  yet,  just  now,  he  carried  himself  under  a 
stiff  curb,  lest  he  forget  his  war.  .  .  . 

"  And  that's  the  end  of  the  man  who  lowered  the 
fluids  in  the  British  barometer,  like  a  typhoon  in  the 
China  Sea,"  he  observed  in  solitude.  "  And  the  Japan 
ese  buried  him  in  the  Kameido,  in  cherry-blossom  time 
— buried  him  for  money — the  man  who  opened  the  veins 
of  their  Empire !  " 

The  work  all  done,  Noreen  Cardinegh  met  the  deluge. 
The  elements  had  been  forming  for  three  days.  She  had 
sensed  them  vaguely  in  sudden  shivers  of  dread.  Her 
soul  was  bared  now  to  the  primal  terror,  the  psychic 
terror,  of  the  outcast,  against  which  seasoned  valor 
quails.  ...  By  the  window,  she  sat  dry-eyed,  in  the 
midst  of  her  father's  possessions !  From  the  street, 
over  the  hotel-gardens,  came  to  her  ears  the  screaming  of 
children.  Japanese  schoolboys  were  passing,  a  procession 
of  them.  They  were  playing  soldier — marching  very 
erect  and  proudly,  with  sticks  for  guns. 

"  My  father  did  this !  "  .  .  .  Upon  such  a  sentence 
the  whole  dreadful  structure  was  built.  Thoughts  of  her 
childhood  had  their  significance  in  the  breaking  of  this 
horrid  storm  of  war.  Aye,  and  the  little  house  in  Tyrone 


246  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

before  her  coming!  It  was  there  that  the  black  shadow, 
falling  upon  his  country,  crept  into  the  brain  of  Jerry 
Cardinegh.  The  shadow  grew,  was  identified  with  her 
earliest  memories.  Into  her  father's  mortal  wound, 
inflicted  by  the  passing  of  the  sweetest  woman,  the 
shadow  had  sunk  with  all  its  Tartarean  blackness.  She 
saw  it  all  now — the  sinister,  mysterious  passion  which 
had  rivalled  even  his  love  for  her.  The  wars  had  deep 
ened,  blackened  it.  The  last  visit  to  Ireland  had  turned 
it  into  hideous,  tossing  night.  And  this  was  the  beating 
storm — babes  with  sticks  for  guns,  companies  of  soldiers 
in  the  Fukiage,  the  wailing  "  Banzai  Niphon  "  from  Shim- 
bashi  station,  where  the  regiments  entrained  for  the 
southern  ports  of  mobilization ;  and  on  the  lower  floor 
of  the  hotel,  where  still  were  gathering  the  war-experts 
from  all  the  earth.  .  .  .  The  strength  ran  from  her 
limbs,  and  her  heart  cried  out. 

Japan,  which  she  had  loved,  became  like  a  haunted 
house  to  her;  yet  she  could  not  hope  to  find  Routledge 
without  some  word  concerning  him,  and  Tokyo  was  the 
natural  base  of  her  search  operations.  All  the  corre 
spondents  going  out  with  the  different  armies  were 
pledged  to  communicate  with  her  any  word  they  might 
receive  regarding  him.  The  correspondents,  unsecured 
to  any  of  the  four  armies,  and  destined  to  work  from 
the  outside — at  Chifu,  Newchwang,  Chemulpo,  Shan- 
haikwan  or  Shanghai — even  these  had  promised  her  a 
cable-flash  at  the  sight  of  Routledge.  Through  an  agent 
in  New  York  she  learned  that  the  name  "  Routledge  " 
was  not  attached  for  work  in  the  Orient  to  any  news 
paper  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard;  still,  by  cable  she  sub- 


A  Japanese  House  at  Eventide         247 

scribed  for  the  chief  American  newspapers.  Tokyo  was 
her  address. 

She  could  not  stay  longer  at  the  Imperial,  which  had 
become  a  sort  of  civilian  war  headquarters.  All  was  war 
in  its  corridors.  In  the  Minimasacuma-cho  of  the  Shiba 
district,  she  took  a  small  house,  establishing  herself  in 
the  native  style,  but  she  could  not  escape  the  agony. 
Japan  was  burning  with  war-lust  from  end  to  end; 
whetted  of  tooth,  talon-fingered,  blood-mad.  Her  fight 
ing  force,  one  of  the  most  formidable  masses  that  ever 
formed  on  the  planet's  curve,  was  landing  in  Korea  and 
Liaotung.  What  meant  the  battle  of  the  Yalu  to  her; 
the  tragedy  of  the  Petropavlovsk,  sunk  off  the  tip  of  the 
fortress  with  Makaroff,  the  great  Verestchagin,  and  five 
hundred  officers  and  men?  Not  a  distant  calamity  of 
foreign  powers,  but  Tyrone — Shubar  Khan — Cardinegh 
— madness — treachery.  What  meant  the  constant  ten 
sion  of  Tokyo,  singing  in  her  ears  like  wires  stretched 
tight — like  the  high-pitched,  blood-hungry  song  of 
insects  in  the  night?  It  meant  the  work  of  her  own 
blood,  her  own  accursed  heritage.  .  .  .  She  was 
called  to  the  Imperial  often  for  the  mails,  but  she  avoided 
the  Englishmen  there,  -and  admitted  none  to  the  little 
house  in  Shiba.  Always,  when  there  were  white  men 
about,  she  fancied  a  whispering  behind  her ;  as,  indeed, 
there  was — the  whispers  that  are  incited  by  the  passing 
of  an  exquisite  woman. 

In  the  early  days  following  her  father's  death, 
Noreen  was  besieged  by  men  who  appeared  suddenly, 
quietly — men  unknown  in  Japan — who  demanded  with 
seeming  authority  all  the  documents  in  her  father's  effects 
which  pertained  to  the  treachery  in  India.  These  were 


248  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

agents  of  the  great  British  secret  service — men  of  mys 
tery  to  all  save  those  who  threatened  England's  inner 
wall.  Noreen  gave  all  that  they  asked,  convinced  them 
of  her  sincerity.  They  impressed  upon  her  the  needs  of 
titter  secrecy,  and  assured  her  that  the  name  of  Routledge 
was  being  purified  to  the  farthest  ends  of  the  service.  It 
was  intimated,  however,  that  this  would  require  much 
time ;  as,  indeed,  it  had  to  fix  the  crime  upon  him.  These 
men  worked  but  little  with  cables  and  mails. 

So  the  wire-ends  held  her  to  Tokyo  through  Yalu  and 
Nanshan  to  the  middle  of  June.  She  was  returning  from 
the  Imperial  at  early  evening  with  a  bundle  of  American 
newspapers.  She  knew  by  the  hushed  streets  that 
another  battle  was  in  progress;  and  she  felt  with  the 
people  the  dreadful  tension  of  waiting,  as  she  hurried 
swiftly  along  the  wide,  dirt-paved  Shiba  road.  Tokyo 
was  all  awake  and  ominously  still.  A  rickshaw-coolie 
darted  out  from  a  dark  corner  with  his  cart,  and  accosted 
her  in  a  low,  persistent  way.  He  wheeled  his  cart  in 
front  of  her,  as  he  would  not  have  dared  with  a  native 
or  a  male  foreigner — and  all  in  a  silent,  alien  fashion. 
She  could  not  sit  still  to  ride — pushed  the  rickshaw  aside 
and  sped  on  in  the  dusk.  She  was  ill,  her  throat  parched 
with  waiting,  her  face  white  with  waiting.  The  founts  of 
her  life  were  dry,  her  heart  thralled  with  famine.  Where 
was  he  for  this  new  battle?  .  .  .  She  passed  knots 
of  women  in  the  streets.  They  talked  softly  as  she 
passed  and  laughed  at  her,  held  up  their  boy-babes  and 
laughed.  She  knew  something  of  the  language,  and 
caught  their  whispering — the  laughing,  child-like  women 
of  Japan,  in  whom  transient  foreigners  delight.  They 
breathed  world-conquest  into  the  «>ars  of  their  men- 


A  Japanese  House  at  Eventide         249 

children ;  and  were  more  horrible  far  in  their  whispering 
and  laughing,  to  Noreen  now,  than  tigresses  yammering 
in  the  jungle-dark. 

She  faltered  before  the  door  of  her  house,  afraid. 
The  servants  had  not  yet  lighted  the  lamps,  and  within 
it  was  darker  than  the  street.  .  .  .  There,  among 
the  densest  shadows,  he  sat — there,  by  the  covered  easel 
in  a  low  chair.  He  was  smiling  at  her,  a  white  and  a 
weary  smile.  His  long,  thin  hands  were  locked  above 
his  head ;  his  lean  limbs  stretched  out  in  tired  fashion, 
the  puttee  leggings  worn  dull  from  the  saddle  fenders; 
his  chest  gaunt,  the  leather-belt  pulled  tight. 

Noreen  sank  to  her  knees  before  the  empty  chair,  her 
face,  her  arms,  in  the  seat  where  the  mist  of  a  man  had 
been !  .  .  .  How  long  she  remained  there  she  never 
knew ;  but  it  was  some  time  before  light  when  she  was 
aroused  by  a  far,  faint  roar  beating  toward  her,  across 
the  city.  The  roar  quickened,  broke  into  a  great,  throb 
bing,  coherent  shout,  and  swept  by  like  a  hurricane, 
leaving  a  city  awake  and  thrown  wide  open  to  exultation. 
The  battle  of  Telissu  had  been  won.  Only  defeats  are 
mourned  in  Japan,  not  the  slain  of  a  victory.  Dawn 
broke,  and  Noreen  looked  out  on  an  altered  Tokyo — 
loathsome  to  her  as  a  gorging  reptile. 

"  You  are  intensely  psychic,  Miss  Cardinegh,"  the 
English  doctor  said.  "  This  '  vision/  as  you  call  it,  means 
nothing  in  itself — that  is,  so  far  as  concerns  the  man  you 
say  you  saw — but  it  signifies  that  you  are  on  the  verge 
of  a  nervous  break-down.  You  must  cease  all  worry 
and  work,  eat  plenty  of  meat,  and  take  long  walks.  It's 
all  nerves,  just  nerves." 


250  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  No,  it  does  not  mean  that  your  lover  is  dead,"  said 
Asia,  through  the  lips  of  the  old  Buddhist  priest  who 
had  buried  her  father.  "  Such  things  happen  this  way. 
He  may  have  been  sleeping,  dreaming  of  you,  when  the 
strength  of  your  heart's  desire  rose  to  the  point  of  calling 
his  form-body  to  your  house  for  an  instant.  It  might 
have  happened  before  in  the  daylight,  and  you  did  not 
know — save  that  you  felt  restless  possibly,  and  filled  with 
strange  anguish.  Had  there  been  light,  you  would  not 
have  seen  him." 

"  But,"  she  faltered,  "  I  have  heard  at  the  moment  of 
death — such  things  happen " 

"  Yes,  but  he  did  not  need  to  die  to  be  called  to  you." 

Yet  she  was  deathly  afraid.  It  had  been  the  same 
after  the  night  of  her  dream  in  Cheer  Street — the  night 
that  Routledge  had  slipped  from  a  noose  in  Madras.  If 
Noreen  had  known  that!  ...  It  is  well  that  she 
did  not,  for  she  could  have  borne  but  little  more. 

Further  weeks  ground  by.  Only  in  the  sense  that  she 
did  not  die,  Noreen  lived,  moving  about  her  little  house, 
in  daylight  and  lamp-light,  without  words,  but  with  many 
fears.  She  tried  to  paint  a  little  in  those  wonderful 
summer  days — days  of  flashing  light,  and  nights  all  lit 
with  divinity — but  between  her  eyes  and  the  canvas, 
films  of  memory  forever  swung:  Routledge-san  in  Cheer 
Street;  in  the  golden  stillness  of  the  Seville;  the  little 
Paris  studio;  in  the  carriage  from  Bookstalls  to  Charing 
Cross ;  in  the  snowy  twilight  on  the  Bund  in  Shanghai — 
yes,  and  the  mist  of  the  man  here  by  the  easel !  .  .  . 
Always  he  was  with  her,  in  her  heart  and  in  her  mind. 

Not  a  word  concerning  Routledge,  from  the  least  or 
greatest  of  the  men  who  had  promised  to  watch  for  him ! 


A  Japanese  House  at  Eventide         251 

Often  it  came  to  her  now  that  he  had  either  allied  him 
self  with  the  Russians  or  avoided  the  war  entirely. 
Could  it  be  that  he  had  already  followed  the  prophecy 
which  Mr.  Jasper  had  repeated  for  her,  and  gone  to  join 
Rawder  a  last  time  in  the  Leper  Valley?  .  .  .  No 
one  in  Japan  had  ever  heard  of  the  Leper  Valley. 

There  was  little  mercy  in  the  thought  of  him  being 
with  the  Russians;  and  yet  such  a  service  might  have 
appealed  to  a  man  who  desired  to  remain  apart  from  the 
English.  If  he  were  in  Liaoyang  or  Mukden,  there  was 
no  hope  of  reaching  him,  until  winter  closed  the  cam 
paign,  at  least.  Only  a  few  hundred  miles  away,  as  the 
crow  flies,  and  yet  Mukden  and  Liaoyang  could  be 
approached  only  from  around  the  world.  The  valley 
between  two  armies  is  impassable,  indeed — unwired,  un- 
tracked,  and  watched  so  that  a  beetle  cannot  cross  unseen. 
.  .  .  The  general  receives  a  dispatch  at  dawn  contain 
ing  the  probable  movements  of  the  enemy  for  this  day. 
One  of  his  spies  in  the  hostile  camp  which  faces  him, 
less  than  two  miles  away,  has  secured  the  information 
and  sent  it  in — not  across  the  impassable  valley,  but 
around  the  world.  ...  If  Routledge  had  known 
that  the  curse  had  been  lifted  from  him,  would  he  not 
have  rushed  back  to  her?  It  seemed  so,  but  with  the 
Russians,  he  would  have  been  last  to  learn  what  had 
befallen. 

Just  once — and  it  marked  the  blackest  hour  of  that 
black  summer  in  Japan — the  thought  flooded  upon  her 
that  Routledge  knew,  but  purposely  remained  apart ;  that 
he  was  big  enough  to  make  the  great  sacrifice  for  her, 
but  not  to  return  to  the  woman  whose  heritage,  in  turn, 
was  the  Hate  of  London.  That  hour  became  a  life-long 


Routledge  Rides  Alone 

memory,   even  though   the   thought   was   whipped   and 
shamed  and  beaten  away. 

It  was  late  in  July  when  certain  sentences  in  an 
American  newspaper  rose  with  a  thrilling  welcome  to  her 
eyes.  There  was  an  intimate  familiarity,  even  in  the 
heading,  which  he  might  not  have  written,  but  which 
reflected  the  movement  and  color  of  his  work.  It  was  in 
the  World-News  of  New  York,  and  signed  "  A.  V. 
Weed."  ...  A  rather  long  feature  cable  dated  at 
Chifu  shortly  after  the  battle  of  Nanshan.  A  number 
of  Russian  prisoners  had  been  taken  by  the  Japanese, 
and  with  them  was  a  certain  Major  Volbars,  said  to  be 
the  premier  swordsman  of  the  Russian  Empire.  The 
Japanese  heard  of  his  fame ;  and,  as  it  appears,  became  at 
once  eager  to  learn  if  Russian  civilization  produced 
sword-arms  equal  to  those  of  her  own  Samurai.  The 
prisoner  was  asked  to  meet  one  Watanabe,  a  young  infan 
try  captain,  and  of  that  meeting  the  World-News  pub 
lished  the  following : 

.  .  .  Here  was  armistice,  the  nucleus  of  which  was  combat. 
There  was  a  smile  upon  the  face  of  Watanabe,  a  snarling  smile, 
for  his  lips  were  drawn  back,  showing  irregular  teeth,  glistening 
white.  His  low  brow  was  wrinkled  and  his  close-cropped, 
bristling  hair  looked  dead-black  in  the  vivid  noon.  The  hilt  of 
his  slim  blade  was  polished  like  lacquer  from  the  nimble  hands 
of  his  Samurai  fathers.  This  was  Watanabe  of  Satsuma,  whose 
wrist  was  a  dynamo  and  whose  thrusts  were  sparks.  The  devil 
looked  out  from  his  fighting-face. 

Volbars  compelled  admiration — a  conscienceless  man,  from 
his  eyes,  but  courageous.  He  was  small,  heavy-shouldered,  and 
quick  of  movement,  with  nervous  eyes  and  hands.  His  left 
cheek  was  slashed  with  many  scars,  and  his  head  inclined  slightly 
to  the  right,  through  a  certain  muscular  contraction  of  the  neck 
or  shoulder.  This  master  of  the  archaic  art  had  the  love  of  his 
soldiers. 


A  Japanese  House  at  Eventide         253 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  let  him  take  the  attack,  Major ! " 
Volbars'  second  whispered.  "  His  style  may  disconcert  you." 

The  Russian  waved  the  man  away,  and  faced  the  Japanese 
swordsman.  His  head  seemed  to  lie  upon  his  right  shoulder, 
and  his  cruel,  sun-darkened  face  shone  with  joy.  His  thick, 
gleaming  white  arm  was  bare.  His  blade,  which  had  opened  the 
veins  of  a  half-hundred  Europeans,  screamed  like  a  witch  as  the 
master-hand  tried  it  in  thin  air. 

The  weapons  touched.  The  styles  of  the  antagonists  were 
different,  but  genius  met  genius  on  its  own  high  ground.  Each 
blade  was  a  quiver  of  arrows,  each  instant  of  survival  due  to 
devilish  cunning  or  the  grace  of  God.  In  spite  of  his  warning, 
Volbars  took  the  attack  and  forced  it  tigerishly.  Some  demon 
purpose  was  in  his  brain,  for  he  shot  his  volleys  high.  A  mar 
velous  minute  passed,  and  a  fountain  of  crimson  welled  from 
Watanabe,  where  his  neck  and  shoulder  met.  The  heavy 
breathing  of  the  Russian  was  heard  now  back  among  his  fellow 
prisoners.  The  Japanese,  sheeted  with  blood  from  his  wound, 
defended  himself  silently.  He  was  younger,  lighter,  superbly 
conditioned. 

The  face  of  Volbars  changed  hideously.  Sweat  ran  into 
his  eyes,  where  the  desperation  of  fatigue  was  plain.  His  lips 
were  stiff  white  cords.  Patches  of  grayish  white  shone  in  his 
cheeks  and  temples.  .  .  .  For  a  second  his  shoulders  lifted ; 
then  an  exultant  gasp  was  heard  from  his  dry  throat. 

That  which  had  been  the  left  eye  in  the  face  of  Watanabe 
burst  like  a  bubble  and  ran  down.  Yet  not  for  the  fraction  of 
a  second  did  the  Japanese  lose  his  guard.  Though  a  window 
of  his  throne-room  was  broken,  the  kingdom  of  his  courage  still 
endured.  The  Russian  second  heard  his  man  gasp,  "  I'm  spent. 
I  can't  kill  him !  " 

The  grin  upon  the  awful  face  of  the  One-eyed  became  more 
tense.  He  seized  the  aggressive,  and  the  Japanese  lines  greeted 
the  change  with  a  high-strung,  ripping  shout.  Watanabe  bored 
in,  stabbing  like  a  viper,  his  head  twisted  to  spare  his  dark  side. 
Volbars'  limbs  were  stricken  of  power.  He  saw  the  end,  as  he 
was  backed  toward  the  prisoners.  A  tuft  of  grass  tmsteadied 
him  for  a  second — and  the  Japanese  lightning-  struck. 

The  sword  of  the  Russian  quivered  to  the  earth  and  the 
master  fell  upon  it,  his  face  against  the  ground,  his  naked 
sw»rd-arm  shaking,  the  hand  groping  blindly  for  the  faithless 


254  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

hilt.  Watanabe  bowed  to  the  prisoners,  and  walked  unassisted 
back  to  his  own  roaring  lines.  His  seconds  followed  closely, 
one  of  them  wiping  the  sword  of  the  Samurai  with  a  wisp  of 
grass.  ...  It  appears  that  Volbars  had  the  audacity  to 
attempt  to  blind  his  opponent  before  killing  him.  It  was  like 
the  battle  of  the  Yalu.  Volbars,  as  did  General  Zassulitch, 
looked  too  lightly  on  the  foe.  .  .  . 

"  A.  V.  Weed  " — what  blessings  fell  upon  the  name 
that  moment!  .  .  .  He  was  not  with  the  Russians! 
Not  in  the  Leper  Valley!  A  cable  to  the  World-News 
that  night  brought  a  reply  the  next  day,  to  the  effect 
that  "  A  V.  Weed  "  had  never  been  in  touch  with  the 
office ;  that  he  was  the  freest  of  free  lances,  and  brought 
his  messages  from  time-to-time  to  one  of  the  free  cables 
outside  the  war-zone.  .  .  .  The  free  cable  nearest  to 
Liaoyang — already  granted  to  be  the  next  scene  of  con 
flict — was  at  Shanhaikwan,  at  the  end  of  the  Great  Wall. 
Noreen  arranged  for  mail  and  dispatches  to  follow  her, 
and  went  down  the  Tokaido,  overtaking  at  Nagasaki  a 
ship  which  had  sailed  from  Yokohama  three  days  before 
she  left 


TWENTIETH  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  IS  SEEN  BY  NOREEN   CARDINEGH,  BUT 

AT  AN  EXCITING  MOMENT  IN  WHICH  SHE 

DARE  NOT  CALL  HIS  NAME 

NOREEN  breathed  sweeter  with  the  shores  of  Japan 
behind.  The  Pacific  liner,  Manchu,  was  crossing  the 
Yellow  Sea  for  Shanghai.  An  evening  in  early  August, 
and  the  tropic  breeze  came  over  the  moon-flecked  water, 
from  the  spicy  archipelagoes  below.  It  was  late,  and  she 
was  sitting  alone,  forward  on  the  promenade-deck.  The 
thought  thralled,  possessed  her  completely,  that  she  was 
drawing  nearer,  nearer  her  soul's  mate.  Might  it  not 
be  given  to  her  to  keep  the  covenant — to  find  him,  though 
all  others  had  failed?  .  .  .  There  was  a  high  light 
over  Asia  for  her  inner  eye,  this  memorable  night  of  her 
romance.  The  crush  of  Japan  was  gone,  and  in  the 
great  hour  of  emancipation  her  love  for  Routledge, 
hardiest  of  perennials,  burst  into  a  delicate  glory  of 
blossoming — countless  blooms  of  devotion,  pure  white ; 
and  in  all  honor  she  could  not  deny — rare  fragrant 
flowerings  of  passional  crimson.  .  .  . 

At  Shanghai  she  sought  the  office  of  the  North  China 
News,  to  learn  what  the  war  had  done  during  her  three 
days  at  sea.  The  Japanese  armies  were  panting — inside 
the  passes  which  had  recently  protected  Liaoyang.  Any 
day  might  begin  the  battle  with  which  Japan  intended 
forever  to  end  Russia's  hold  in  Liaotung  peninsula.  The 
News  stated  blithely  that  there  was  no  doubt  of  the  war 

255 


256  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

being  over  by  September.  .  .  .  There  was  another 
story  in  the  files  of  early  August,  and  in  the  silent  office 
the  woman  bent  long  over  the  sheet,  huge  as  a  luncheon- 
cover.  This  was  an  Indian  exchange  with  a  Simla  mark. 
An  English  correspondent,  wandering  somewhere  in  the 
Hills,  had  run  across  a  white  man  travelling  with  an  old 
Hindu  lama.  A  weird  mad  pair,  the  story  said,  half- 
starving,  but  they  asked  no  alms.  Whither  they  were 
going,  they  would  not  say,  nor  from  whence  they  had 
come.  The  natives  seemed  to  understand  the  wanderers, 
and  possibly  filled  the  lama's  bowl.  The  feet  of  the 
white  man  were  bare  and  travel-bruised,  his  clothing  a 
motley  of  Hindu  and  Chinese  garments.  The  article 
intimated  that  he  was  a  "  gone-wrong  missionary,"  but  its 
whole  purport  and  excuse  was  to  point  out  the  menace 
to  British  India  from  unattached  white  men,  mad  or 
apparently  mad,  moving  where  they  willed,  in  and  out 
of  restless  States,  especially  at  such  a  time  as  now,  when 
the  activity  of  foreign  agents,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  . 

The  article  was  rock-tight  and  bitter  with  the  Dead 
Sea  bitterness.  The  pressure  of  the  whole  senile  East 
was  in  it.  The  woman  quivered  from  a  pain  the  prints 
had  given  her,  and  moved  out  of  the  darkened  office 
into  the  strange  road,  thick  and  yellow  with  heat. 
.  .  .  Could  this  be  Rawder  and  his  Hindu  master? 
.  .  .  It  occurred  to  her  suddenly  that  the  men  of  the 
newspaper  might  be  able  to  tell  her  of  the  Leper  Valley. 
She  turned  back  to  the  office,  was  admitted  to  the 
editor.  .  .  .  No,  he  had  not  heard  of  the  Leper 
Valley.  There  were  leper  colonies  scattered  variously 
throughout  the  interior.  It  might  be  one  of  them.  .  .  . 
She  thanked  him  and  went  away,  leaving  a  problem  to 


An  Exciting  Moment  257 

mystify  many  sleepy,  sultry  days.  .  .  .  That  night, 
Noreen  engaged  passage  in  a  coasting  steamer  for 
Tongu,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  thereafter 
boarded  the  Peking-Shanhaikwan  train  on  the  Chinese 
Eastern. 

Alone  in  a  first-class  compartment,  she  watched  the 
snaky  furrows  of  maize  throughout  seven  eternities  of 
daylight,  until  her  eyes  stung  and  her  brain  revolted  at 
the  desolate,  fenceless  levels  of  sun-deadened  brown. 
Out  of  a  pent  and  restless  doze,  at  last  she  found  that 
a  twilight  film  had  cooled  the  distance;  she  beheld  the 
sea  on  her  right  hand,  and  before  her  the  Great  Wall — 
that  gray  welt  on  the  Eastern  world,  conceived  centuries 
before  the  Christ,  rising  into  the  dim  mountains  and 
jutting  down  into  the  sea.  In  an  inexplicable  moment  of 
mental  abstraction,  as  the  train  drew  up  to  Shanhaikwan, 
the  soul  of  the  weary  woman  whispered  to  her  that  she 
had  seen  it  all  before. 

At  the  Rest  House,  Noreen  ventured  to  inquire  of 
a  certain  agent  of  ?  big  British  trading  company  if  he 
knew  any  of  the  English  or  American  war-correspondents 
who  had  come  recently  to  Shanhaikwan  to  file  their 
work  on  the  uncensored  cable.  This  man  was  an  un 
lovely  Englishman  poisoned  by  China  and  drink.  .  .  . 
Oh,  yes,  some  of  the  men  had  come  in  from  the  field 
or  from  Wangcheng  with  big  stories,  but  had  trouble 
getting  back  to  their  lines,  it  was  said. 

"  Have  you  heard — or  do  you  know — if  Mr.  Rout- 
ledge  has  been  here  ?  " 

His  face  filled  with  an  added  inflammation,  and  he 
mumbled   something  which  had  to  do  with  Routledge 
and  the  treachery  in  India. 
17 


258  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  demanded  hopelessly, 
"  that  you — that  Shanhaikwan  has  not  heard  that  Mr. 
Routledge  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  treachery  in  India 
— that  another,  Cardinegh  of  the  Witness,  confessed  the 
crime  on  his  death-bed  ?  " 

The  Englishman  had  not  heard.  He  bent  toward  her 
with  a  quick,  aroused  look  and  wanted  to  know  all,  but 
she  fled  to  her  room.  ...  It  was  not  strange  if 
Routledge  failed  to  hear  of  his  vindication,  when  this 
British  agent  had  not.  ...  By  the  open  window 
she  sat  for  hours  staring  at  the  Great  Wall  in  the  moon 
light.  She  saw  it  climb  through  the  white  sheen  which 
lay  upon  the  mountains,  and  saw  it  dip  into  the  twinkling 
sea,  like  a  monster  that  has  crawled  down  to  drink. 
There  were  intervals  when  Shanhaikwan  was  still  as 
the  depths  of  the  ocean.  The  whole  landscape  frightened 
her  with  its  intimate  reality.  The  thought  came  again 
that  this  had  once  been  her  country,  that  she  had  seen  the 
Mongol  builders  murdered  by  the  lash  and  the  toil. 

The  purest  substance  of  tragedy  evolved  in  her  brain. 
There  had  been  something  abhorrent  in  contact  with  the 
Englishman  below.  She  had  seen  a  hate  for  Routledge 
like  that  before — at  the  Army  and  Navy  reception! 
And  then,  the  sinister  narrative  of  the  white  man  in 
India,  as  it  had  been  set  down  by  the  English  corre 
spondent  !  .  .  .  Could  this  be  "  their  bravest  man  "  ? 
Was  he,  too,  attracting  hatred  and  suspicion  in  India, 
as  a  result  of  the  excitement  into  which  her  father's 
work  had  thrown  the  English  ?  Could  not  poor  Rawder, 
barefoot,  travel-bruised,  and  wearing  a  motley  of  native 
garments,  be  free  from  this  world-havoc  which  was  her 
heritage?  .  .  .  That  instant  in  the  supremacy  of 


An  Exciting  Moment  259 

• 

pain  she  could  not  feel  in  her  heart  that  Rotitledge 
wanted  her — or  that  he  was  in  the  world !  .  .  .  Could 
he  be  dead,  or  in  the  Leper  Valley  ?  Had  his  mind  gone 
back  to  dust — burned  out  by  these  terrible  currents  of 
hatred?  .  .  . 

The  pictured  thought  drew  forth  a  stifled  scream. 
The  lamp  in  her  room  was  turned  low,  and  the  still, 
windless  night  was  a  pitiless  oppression.  Crossing  the 
room  to  open  the  door,  in  agony  for  air,  she  passed  the 
mirror  and  saw  a  dim  reflection — white  arms,  white 
throat,  white  face.  She  turned  the  knob. 

The  clink  of  glasses  on  a  tin-tray  reached  her  from 
below,  with  the  soft  tread  of  'a  native  servant ;  then  from 
farther,  the  clink  of  billiard-balls  and  a  man's  voice,  low 
but  insinuating,  its  very  repression  an  added  vileness: 

"  Dam'  me,  but  she  was  a  stunning  woman,  a  ripping 
woman — and  out  after " 

She  crashed  the  door  shut  and  bolted  it  against  the 
pestilence.  .  .  .  Had  the  powers  of  evil  this  night 
consummated  a  heinous  mockery  to  test  her  soul,  because 
her  soul  was  strong?  ...  In  terror  and  agony,  she 
knelt  by  the  open  window.  The  Wall  was  still  there, 
sleeping  in  the  moonlight — the  biggest  man-made  thing 
in  the  world,  and  the  quietest.  It  steadied  her,  and  the 
stuff  of  martyrs  came  back. 

The  man  in  charge  of  the  cable-office  in  Shanhaikwan 
told  her  the  next  morning  that  a  correspondent  who 
signed  himself  "  A.  V.  Weed  "  had  brought  in  a  long 
message  for  New  York,  just  after  the  Yalu  battle,  but 
had  not  tarried  even  a  night  in  town.  "  A  tall,  haggard 
stranger  with  a  low  voice,"  the  man  described  him* 


260  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

.  .  .  There  was  little  more  to  be  learned,  but  this 
was  life  to  her,  and  the  first  tangible  word,  that  he  lived, 
since  her  father's  death.  Noreen  spent  the  day  walking 
alone  on  the  beaches  and  through  the  foreign  concession. 

From  the  top  of  the  Wall  in  the  afternoon,  she  stared 
down  at  the  little  walled  city  which  grew  out  of  the 
great  masonry.  There  she  could  see  a  bit  of  living 
China — all  its  drones  and  workers  and  sections  and  gal 
leries,  as  in  a  glass  bee-hive.  Big  thoughts  took  the 
breath  from  her.  Europe  seemed  young  and  tawdry 
beside  this.  She  picked  up  one  of  the  loose  stones — 
touched  the  hem  of  the  Wall's  garment,  as  it  were — 
and  again  she  had  but  to  close  her  eyes  and  look  back 
centuries  into  the  youth  of  time,  when  the  Wall  was 
building,  to  see  the  Mongols  swarming  like  ants  over 
the  raw,  half-done  thing.  .  .  .  There  was  a  little 
French  garrison  in  the  town;  and  the  Sikh  infantry,  at 
target-practice  on  the  beach,  brought  India  back.  The 
day  was  not  without  fascination  to  her  relieved  mind. 

The  evening  train  from  Peking  brought  a  white  man 
who  added  to  the  stability  of  Shanhaikwan — Talliaferro 
of  the  Commonwealth.  The  dry  little  man  was  greatly 
disturbed  in  heart.  He  had  deliberately  given  up  his 
place  with  Oku's  second  army,  choosing  to  miss  the  smoky 
back-thresh  of  future  actions  in  the  field,  in  order  to 
get  what  he  could  out  on  the  free  cable.  Peter  Pellen's 
"  Excalibur,"  credited  with  acumen,  flying  and  sub 
marine,  had  broken  under  the  Japanese  pressure. 

"  Have  you  seen  or  heard  of  Mr.  Routledge  ?  "  she 
\vhispered  at  dinner. 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "  In  the  field  we  never  got  a 
whisper  from  him.  The  Pan-Anglo  man  in  Shanghai 


An  Exciting  Moment  261 

told  me,  however,  that  he  thought  Routledge  was  playing 
the  Chinese-end — that  is,  living  just  outside  the  war-zone 
and  making  sallies  in,  from  time  to  time,  when  things 
are  piping  hot.  The  reason  he  thought  Routledge  was 
working  this  game  was  the  fact  that  New  York  has 
sprung  three  or  four  great  stories  which  London  has 
missed  entirely.  It's  all  a  guess,  Miss  Cardinegh,  but 
somebody  is  doing  it,  and  it's  his  kind  of  service — the 
perilous,  hard-riding  kind.  Nobody  but  a  man  on  the 
Inside  of  Asia  would  attempt  it.  There  was  an  Ameri 
can,  named  Butzel,  shot  by  the  Chinese  on  the  Liao  River 
ten  days  ago.  He  was  not  an  accredited  correspondent, 
as  I  understand  it,  but  was  using  the  war  for  a  living. 
Butzel's  death  was  wired  in  from  the  interior  some 
where,  and  they  had  it  back  from  New  York  in  Shanghai 
when  I  was  there.  Did  you  hear?  " 

"  No." 

"  It  appears  that  Butzel  planned  to  get  into  Liaoyang 
for  the  battle,"  Talliaferro  went  on,  "  whether  the  Japan 
ese  liked  it  or  not.  About  the  place  where  the  Taitse 
flows  into  the  Liao,  the  river-pirates  murdered  him ' 

Talliaferro  stopped,  startled  by  the  look  in  the  face 
of  the  woman.  Her  eyes  were  wide,  almost  electric  with 
suffering,  her  face  colorless.  The  lamp-light  heightened 
the  effects;  also  her  dress,  which  was  of  black  entire. 
Talliaferro  noted  such  things.  He  always  remembered 
her  hand  that  moment,  as  it  was  raised  to  check  him, 
white,  fragile,  emotional. 

"  What  is  it,  Miss  Cardinegh  ?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  replied  steadily,  "  that  Mr. 
Routledge  is  there  in  all  likelihood — '  playing  the  Chinese 
end,'  as  you  call  it.  I  was  thinking  that  he  might  not 


262  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

have  heard  that  he  is  vindicated — that  he  might  be  mur 
dered  before  he  learned  that  my  father  had  confessed." 

She  hurried  away  before  the  dinner  was  half  through, 
and  Talilaferro  was  left  to  dislike  himself,  for  a  short 
period,  for  bringing  up  the  Butzel  murder.  .  .  . 
Noreen  sat  again  by  the  window  in  her  room.  The 
story  had  frightened  her,  so  that  she  felt  the  need  of 
being  alone  to  think.  The  dreadfulness  of  the  night 
before  did  not  return,  however.  .  .  .  The  moon 
rose  high  to  find  the  Wall  again — every  part  of  it,  wind 
ing  in  the  mountains.  .  .  .  Was  it  not  possible  that 
Talliaferro  was  over-conscious  of  the  dangers  of  the 
Chinese  end?  Routledge  had  been  up  there,  possibly 
since  the  Yalu  battle,  and  he  had  proved  a  master  in 
these  single-handed  services  of  his.  .  .  .  She  had 
heard  of  Talliaferro's  capacity  to  command  the  highest 
price,  heard  of  him  as  an  editorial  dictator  and  of  his 
fine  grasp  on  international  affairs,  but  her  father  had 
once  remarked  that  the  Excalibur  "  did  not  relish  dan 
gling  his  body  in  the  dirty  area  between  two  firing  lines." 
.  .  .  There  was  hope  in  her  heart,  and  she  slept. 

"  Please  don't  apologize,  Mr.  Talliaferro,"  she  said 
the  next  morning,  when  he  met  her  sorrowfully.  "  It  is 
I  who  should  apologize.  For  a  moment  you  made  me 
see  vividly  the  dangers  up  yonder,  but  I  put  it  all  away 
and  had  a  real  rest.  Tell  me  about  the  field  and  Oku." 

Talliaferro  was  inclined  to  talk  very  little,  as  a  rule, 
but  he  had  brooded  deeply  upon  his  failure  in  this  service, 
and  it  was  rather  a  relief  to  speak — with  Noreen  Cardi- 
negh  to  listen. 

"  At  least,  we  have  added  to  the  gaiety  of  nations 
with  our  silence  in  the  field,"  he  said.  "  It  has  been  the 


An  Exciting  Moment  263 

silence  of  the  Great  Wall  yonder.  We  knew  nothing 
even  of  the  main  strategy,  which  was  familiar  to  all  out 
side  who  cared  to  follow  the  war.  Japanese  officers  were 
assigned  to  overhear  what  we  said  to  one  another.  They 
even  opened  our  personal  mail.  The  field-telegraph  was 
hot  clay  and  night  with  the  war-business,  so  that  our 
messages  were  hung  up  for  days,  even  with  the  life  cut 
out  of  them.  And  then  when  Oku  drove  into  action  we 
were  always  back  with  the  reserves — not  that  I  think  a 
correspondent  can  do  a  battle  classic  for  his  cable-editor, 
simply  because  he  mingles  first  hand  with  shrapnel;  but 
we  had  only  the  sun  and  stars  to  go  by  as  to  which  was 
north  and  south.  Think  of  it,  and  the  man  who  writes 
a  war-classic  must  have  a  conception  of  the  whole  land 
and  sea  array,  and  an  inner  force  of  his  own,  to  make 
his  sentences  shine " 

She  smiled  a  little  and  straightened  her  shoulders  to 
breathe  deeply  the  good  sea  air.  They  were  walking 
out  toward  the  Wall. 

"  But  suppose  he  has  the  big  conception,  as  you  say, 
and  then  goes  into  the  heart  of  the  thing  " — her  voice 
became  tense — "  where  the  poor  brave  brutes  are  coming 
together  to  die  ?  " 

"  He'll  unquestionably  do  it  better,"  said  Talliaferro, 
regarding  her  blowing  hair  with  satisfaction  to  the  artis 
tic  sense  he  cultivated.  "  Physical  heroism  is  cheap — 
the  cheapest  utility  of  the  nations — but  it  is  not  without 
inspiration  to  watch.  .  .  .  We  had  neither — neither 
facts  nor  blood  with  Oku." 

Long  and  weary  were  those  August  days  in  Shan- 
haikwan.  Noreen  lived  for  the  end  of  the  battle,  and 


264  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

with  a  prayer  that  it  would  end  the  war  and  bring  in — 
all  the  correspondents.  Over  and  over  she  mapped  the 
war-country  in  her  mind,  with  a  lone  horseman  shutting 
out  her  view  of  armies.  There  were  moments  at  night  in 
which  she  felt  that  Routledge-san  was  not  far  away — 
even  Liaoyang  was  less  than  three  hundred  miles  away. 
.  .  .  Those  last  days  of  the  month — only  a  woman 
can  bear  such  terrors  of  tension.  Each  night-train  now 
brought  vagrant  sentences  from  the  field,  bearing  upon 
the  unparalleled  sacrifices  of  men  by  the  Japanese. 
Throughout  August  thirty-first,  Shanhaikwan  waited 
expectantly  for  a  decision  from  the  battle,  but  when  the 
night  train  was  in  the  Russians  were  still  holding.  Late 
in  the  afternoon  of  September  first,  Talliaferro  sought 
Miss  Cardinegh  bringing  an  exciting  rumor  that  the 
Japanese  had  won  the  battle  and  the  city. 

"There's  another  thing,"  he  added.  "  The  English 
agent  of  the  trading  company  here — the  man  of  whom 
you  don't  approve — has  heard  from  Bingley.  He  will 
be  in  from  Wangcheng  to-night,  and  something  big  is 
up.  Bingley  has  called  for  a  horse  to  meet  him  at  the 
train — a  fast  horse.  I'll  wager  there's  an  American  cor 
respondent  on  the  train,  Miss  Cardinegh,  and  that  the 
'  Horse-killer '  plans  to  beat  him  to  the  cable-office  in 
the  half-mile  from  the  station.  He  wouldn't  wire  for  a 
horse  if  he  were  alone.  Another  matter.  Borden,  the 
American  Combined  Press  man  here,  looks  to  have  some 
thing  big  under  cover.  Altogether,  I  think  there'll  be 
great  stuff  on  the  cable  to-night.  The  chief  trouble  is, 
there  won't  be  any  core — to  Bingley's  apple.  .  .  .  I'll 
call  for  you  in  a  half -hour — if  I  may — and  we'll  walk 
down  to  the  train  together." 


An  Exciting  Moment  265 

"  Thank  you.  Of  course,"  she  answered.  .  .  . 
That  half-hour  pulled  a  big  tribute  of  nervous  energy. 
Noreen  did  not  know  what  to  think,  but  she  fought  back- 
hope  with  all  the  strength  which  months  of  self-war  had 
given.  .  .  . 

The  train  appeared  at  last  through  the  gap  in  the 
Great  Wall — cleared  torturingly  slow  in  the  twilight. 
Talliaferro  directed  her  eyes  to  two  saddle-horses  on  the 
platform.  Borden,  the  American,  was  in  touch  with  a 
China-boy  who  held  a  black  stallion  of  notorious  prowess. 
.  .  .  She  hardly  noted.  The  train  held  her  eyes.  Her 
throat  was  dry — her  heart  stormed  with  emotion.  .  .  . 
She  did  not  scream.  Routledge  hung  far  out  from  the 
platform — searching  to  locate  his  mount.  She  covered 
her  face  in  her  parasol.  .  .  .  This  was  the  end  of  a 
race  from  the  field  with  Bingley.  .  .  .  She  choked 
back  her  heart's  cry,  lest  it  complicate. 

Routledge  sped  past  her — leaped  with  a  laugh  into 
the  saddle  of  the  black  stallion.  His  eye  swept  the 
crowd — but  the  yellow  silk  of  the  parasol  shielded  her 
face.  He  spurred  off  toward  the  cable-office — with 
Bingley  thundering  behind  on  a  gray  mount.  .  .  . 
Not  till  then  did  she  dare  to  scream : 

"  Win  !     Ride  to  win,  Routledge-san !  " 

Out  of  the  shouting  crowd,  she  ran  after  the  horse 
men — past  the  Rest  House,  through  the  mud-huts  of  the 
native  quarter.  .  .  .  On  she  sped,  the  night  filled 
with  glory  for  her  eyes.  .  .  .  Suddenly  there  was 
a  shot — then  four  more — from  ahead.  Fear  bound  her 
limbs,  and  she  struggled  on — as  in  the  horrid  weights  of 
an  evil  dream. 


TWENTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE,    BROODING   UPON   THE  MIGHTY  SPEC- 

TACLE  OF  A  JAPANESE  BIVOUAC,  TRACES  A 

WORLD-WAR  TO  THE  LEAK  IN 

ONE  MAN'S  BRAIN 

PARTING  from  Noreen  Cardinegh  on  the  Bund  at 
Shanghai,  Routledge  walked  back  through  the  darkness 
to  the  German  Inn  far  out  on  the  Hankow  road.  He 
was  not  conscious  of  the  streets,  nor  of  time  passed.  Not 
a  word  he  had  spoken  to  the  woman  could  he  remember, 
but  all  that  she  had  said  recurred  again  and  again.  He 
was  torn  within.  The  wound  was  too  deep  for  heavy 
pain  at  first — that  would  come  later  with  the  drawing- 
together — but  he  was  dazed,  weakened.  He  turned  into 
the  door  of  the  hostelry  and  recalled  that  he  had  nothing 
to  do  there.  He  had  engaged  passage  on  the  Sungkiang 
for  Chifu  that  afternoon.  His  baggage  was  aboard, 
and  the  ship  lying  on  the  water-front  which  he  had  left. 
He  turned  back,  without  any  particular  emotion  at  his 
absentmindedness,  but  he  charged  himself  with  an  evil 
recklessness  for  tarrying  on  the  Bund  in  the  afternoon. 
.  .  .  Finacune  had  seen  him,  and  Noreen.  .  .  . 

Jerry  Cardinegh  was  still  alive — lost  to  wars,  lost  to 
friends,  but  still  alive.  He  was  close  to  death,  his  brain 
probably  already  dead  to  big  things,  and  he  had  not  told ! 
Noreen  would  never  know.  Routledge  tried  to  be  glad. 
All  his  praying,  hiding,  and  suffering  had  been  to  save 
her  from  knowing.  His  lips  formed  a  meaningless 
declarative  sentence  to  the  effect  that  he  was  glad; 
266 


A  Leak  in  One  Man's  Brain  267 

meaningless,  because  there  was  no  sanction  in  his  heart. 
He  was  ill  and  very  weary.  He  wished  it  were  time  for 
the  prophesied  wound,  and  for  Noreen  to  come  to  him. 
He  was  not  powerful  enough  that  moment,  walking  back 
to  the  Bund,  to  face  the  future,  and  hold  the  thought  that 
he  was  to  remain  an  outcast.  .  .  . 

"  She  will  come  to  me  when  Jerry  is  dead,"  he  re 
peated,  and  for  the  time  he  could  not  fight  it.  ... 
He  went  aboard,  forgetting  dinner,  and  dropped  upon  his 
berth.  The  Sunkiang  put  off,  out  into  the  river,  and 
long  afterward  lifted  to  the  big  swell  in  the  offing.  These 
were  but  faint  touches  of  consciousness.  His  mind  held 
greater  matters — the  strength  of  her  hand,  the  breath, 
the  fragrance,  the  vehemence,  the  glory  of  the  woman 
in  the  wintry  dusk,  as  she  rushed  back  to  her  work — 
the  tearing  tragedy  of  parting;  again  the  pitiless  moun 
tains  of  separation.  .  .  . 

Loose  articles  were  banging  about  the  floor;  the 
pendent  oil-lamp  creaked  with  the  pitching  of  the  ship. 
It  was  after  midnight.  Routledge  caught  up  the  great 
frieze  coat  and  went  out  on  the  main-deck.  It  was  a 
cold  ruffian  of  a  night,  but  it  restored  his  strength. 

She  would  keep  her  promise  and  come  to  him,  when 
her  father  was  dead.  He  faced  the  thought  now  that  she 
would  never  know  the  truth ;  that  Jerry  Cardinegh  would 
have  spoken  long  since,  if  he  could.  ...  In  some 
deep  dark  place  of  the  earth,  she  would  find  him ;  and 
some  British  eye,  ever  keen,  would  see  them  together — 
the  lady  and  the  outcast.  .  .  .  He  would  send  her  away 
— put  on  a  martyrdom  of  frost  and  steel — and  send  her 
away.  .  .  .  If  he  lied,  saying  that  he  wanted  no 
woman — she  would  go  back.  .  .  .  But  Noreen  was 


268  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

to  find  him  wounded,  fallen.  Might  he  not,  in  delirium, 
utter  the  truth  that  her  father  failed  to  confess?  No, 
the  human  will  could  prevent  that!  He  would  go  down 
close  to  the  very  Gates  with  his  lips  locked. 

"...  I  shall  take  care  of  your  life  for  you — 
even  in  the  Leper  Valley !  "  Routledge  thought  he  must 
be  mad  to  imagine  those  words.  Her  face — as  the  words 
came  to  him — rhad  been  blotted  out  in  the  snow  and  the 
dark;  yet  it  was  her  voice,  and  the  words  rang  through 
his  soul.  She  could  not  have  seen  Rawder  nor  the 
Hindu.  They  were  lost  in  Northern  India.  He  knew 
nothing  of  Jasper  having  passed  the  hut  in  Rydamphur 
that  night,  'nor  of  his  meeting  with  Noreen  on  ship 
board.  The  Leper  Valley,  hidden  in  the  great  moun 
tains  of  Southern  China,  was  scarcely  a  name  to  the 
world.  Could  Noreen  have  heard  the  name,  and  used 
it  merely  as  a  symbol  of  speech  for  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  earth?  This  was  the  only  adjustment  of  the 
mystery  upon  a  material  basis. 

He  fought  it  all  out  that  night  in  the  icy  gale  on  the 
main-deck  of  the  Sungkiang,  and  entered  upon  the  lone 
liest,  harshest  campaign  and  the  bleakest  season  of  his 
life.  ...  Often  it  came  to  him  with  a  great,  almost 
an  overpowering  surge — the  passion  to  look  into  the 
eyes  of  Noreen  Cardinegh  again  and  to  stand  among 
men,  but  he  fought  it  with  the  grim,  immutable  fact  that 
he  had  taken  her  father's  crime  and  must  keep  it,  stand 
by  it,  with  his  dearest  efforts  until  the  end.  If  fate 
destined  some  time  to  lift  the  burden — that  was  resist 
less.  .  .  .  Except  in  bringing  in  his  stories  to  the 
cables,  he  passed  the  spring  and  summer  in  the  deepest 
seclusion. 


A  Leak  in  One  Man's  Brain  269 

This  he  knew:  if  he  were  seen  by  any  of  his  old 
friends  among  the  English,  the  word  would  be  carried  to 
Jerry  Cardinegh,  who,  if  still  alive,  might  be  stirred  to 
confession.  To  save  Noreen  from  this  was  the  first 
point  of  his  sacrifice.  If  her  father  were  dead,  uncon- 
fessed,  and  word  reached  her  that  the  outcast  had  been 
seen  in  a  certain  part  of  Manchuria,  she  would  come  to 
share  his  hell-haunted-life — a  thought  which  his  whole 
manhood  shunned.  Moreover,  if  he  were  seen  by  the 
British,  the  sinister  powerful  fingers  of  the  secret  service 
would  stretch  toward  him ;  in  which  case,  if  nothing 
worse  happened,  he  would  be  driven  from  the  terrain 
of  war.  Work  was  his  only  boon — furious,  unabating, 
world-rousing  work.  God  so  loved  the  world  that  he 
gave  unto  poor  forlorn  man  his  work.  .  .  .  No 
more  loitering  on  Bunds'  or  Foreign  Concessions  for 
Cosmo  Routledge. 

From  various  Chinese  bases,  he  made  flying  incur 
sions  into  the  war-belt  for  the  World-News — a  lonely, 
perilous,  hard-shipping,  and  hard-riding  service,  but 
astonishingly  successful.  It  was  his  flash  from  Chifu 
which  told  New  York  that  the  war  was  on  before  the 
declaration.  This  was  on  the  night  of  February  eighth. 
A  strong  but  not  a  roaring  west  wind  brought  Togo's 
firing  across  the  gulf.  He  chanced  a  message  and  veri 
fied  it  before  dawn  by  an  incoming  German  ship,  which 
had  steamed  past  the  fortress  when  the  Russian  fleet  was 
attacked. 

Again,  he  was  with  the  Russians  at  Wangcheng  before 
the  port  was  closed,  and  got  the  story  of  the  Yalu  fight. 
This  through  John  Milner,  the  American  consul  at 
Wangcheng,  in  whom  he  made  a  staunch  and  valued 


270  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

friend,  regretting  that  it  was  necessary  to  do  so  under 
the  name  of  "  A.  V.  Weed."  Milner  was  an  old  World- 
News  editor,  a  man  of  stirring  energy,  and  strong  in 
the  graces  of  the  Russians  at  his  post.  He  was  ardent 
to  serve  all  American  interests,  and  the  World-News  in 
particular.  He  presented  Routledge  to  General  Boro- 
doffsky,  who  told  the  story  of  the  battle;  and  there  was 
a  fine  touch  in  the  fact  that  the  general  wept  as  he 
related  the  Russian  defeat.  The  story  proved  more  com 
plete  and  accurate  than  any  which  the  correspondents 
with  Kuroki  managed  to  get  through  the  Japanese  censor. 
Kuroki's  great  losses  by  drowning  were  for  the  first  time 
brought  out.  Borodoffsky  declared  with  tears  that  the 
future  of  the  war  must  not  be  judged  by  this  battle,  as 
the  Russian  defeat  was  due  entirely  to  an  error  of  judg 
ment.  Routledge  was  leaving  Wangcheng  with  the  story 
when  two  British  correspondents  arrived.  This  pre 
vented  his  return.  The  Borodoffsky  story  was  filed  in 
Shanhaikwan. 

In  a  sea-going  junk,  the  third  week  of  May,  Rout- 
ledge  crossed  the  Liaotung  Gulf,  hoping  to  get  into 
Port  Arthur,  which  was  not  yet  invested.  Instead,  he 
stumbled  onto  the  Nanshan  story.  From  the  northern 
promontory  of  Kinchow  he  caught  a  big  and  valuable 
conception  of  this  literatesque  engagement  of  the  land 
and  sea  forces,  and  returned  with  it  to  Chifu  for  filing. 

Back  to  lower  Liaotung  again,  in  early  June.  In  spite 
of  every  precaution,  one  of  Togo's  gunboats  ran  him 
down  in  Society  Bay,  and  he  was  sent  ashore  under  a 
guard.  Great  luck  served  him,  inasmuch  as  there  were 
no  English  with  the  Japanese  at  this  place,  Pulatien, 
where  he  was  held  for  ten  days,  while  the  officers  debated 


A  Leak  in  One  Man's  Brain  271 

upon  his  credentials.  It  was  here  that  Routledge  encoun 
tered  the  prettiest  feature-story  of  the  war — the  duel  of 
Watanabe  and  Major  Volbars,  a  prisoner  from  Nanshan. 
The  Japanese  escorted  him  to  his  junk  at  last,  and  he 
put  off  with  orders  from  one  of  Togo's  ensigns  to  return 
no  more  ttf  Kwantung  waters.  The  battle  of  Telissu 
was  fought  on  this  day  at  sea,  and  he  missed  it  entirely. 
With  English  now  in  Wangcheng  and  Chifu,  Routledge 
ordered  his  Chinese  to  sail  north,  and  to  put  him  ashore 
at  Yuenchen,  a  little  port  twenty  miles  to  the  west  of 
the  Liao's  mouth. 

It  was  only  by  a  squeak  that  the  order  was  carried 
out.  That  was  a  night  of  furies  on  the  yellow  gulf. 
Bent  in  the  hold,  thigh-deep  in  tossing  water,  Routledge 
recalled  the  hovel  in  Rydamphur  with  a  sorry  smile.  It 
did  not  seem  at  that  moment  that  the  storm  would  ever 
permit  him  to  be  maimed  on  land — or  a  woman  to  come 
to  him.  The  old  craft  was  beaten  about  under  bare 
poles  in  a  roaring  black  that  seemed  to  drop  from  chaos. 
The  Chinese  fought  for  life,  but  the  gray  of  death-fear 
was  upon  them.  Bruised,  almost  strangled,  Routledge 
crouched  in  the  musty  hold,  until  his  mind  fell  at  last 
into  a  strange  abstraction,  from  which  he  aroused  after 
an  unknown  time.  His  physical  weariness  was  extreme, 
but  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  he  could  have  slept, 
standing  in  black,  foaming  water,  and  with  a  demoniacal 
gale  screeching  outside.  Yet  certainly  something  had 
gone  from  him  and  had  taken  his  consciousness,  or  the 
better  part  of  it.  ...  It  was  this  night  that  Noreen 
Cardinegh  had  entered  at  dusk  her  little  house  in  Mini- 
masacuma-cho  and  met  by  the  easel  the  visible  thought- 
form  of  her  lover. 


272  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Day  broke  with  the  wind  lulled,  and  the  old  craft 
riding  monster  seas,  her  poles  still  to  the  sky.  The  day 
light  sail  brought  him  to  Yuenchen;  from  whence  he 
made  his  way  northward  by  land  to  Pingyang.  This 
town  was  but  an  hour's,  saddle  to  the  east  of  the  railroad 
and  telegraph  at  Koupangtze — twenty  miles  west  of  the 
junction  of  the  Taitse  and  the  Liao  river,  and  fifty  miles 
west  of  Liaoyang.  Here  he  established  headquarters 
completely  out  of  the  white  man's  world,  rested  and 
wrote  mail  stories  for  several  weeks.  Toward  the  end 
of  July,  he  set  out  on  a  ten  days'  saddle  trip  toward 
Liaoyang,  with  the  idea  of  becoming  familiar  with  the 
topography  of  the  country,  in  preparation  for  the  battle, 
already  in  sight.  It  was  on  this  trip  that  he  was  hailed 
one  afternoon  by  an  American,  named  Butzel.  This 
young  man  was  sitting  on  the  aft-gunnel  of  a  river- junk, 
rolling  a  cigarette,  when  Routledge  turned  his  horse  upon 
the  Taitse  river-road,  four  or  five  miles  to  the  east  of  the 
Liao.  Routledge  would  have  avoided  the  meeting  had 
he  been  given  a  chance,  but  Butzel  gaily  ordered  his 
Chinese  to  put  ashore.  The  voice  was  that  of  a  man 
from  the  Middle  States — and  Routledge  filled  with  yearn 
ing  to  take  a  white  hand.  His  only  friend  since  he  had 
left  Rawder  in  India  was  Consul  Milner  at  Wangcheng. 

Butzel  had  journeyed  thus  deep  into  the  elder  world — 
as  natural  an  explorer  as  ever  left  behind  his  nerves  and 
his  saving  portion  of  fear.  He  hadn't  any  particular 
credentials,  he  said,  and  hadn't  played  the  newspaper 
game  very  strongly  up  to  now.  The  Japanese  had  re 
fused  to  permit  him  to  go  out  with  any  of  the  armies ; 
and  he  had  tried  to  get  into  Port  Arthur  with  a  junk, 
but  Togo  had  driven  him  off.  He  had  very  little  money. 


A  Leak  in  One  Man's  Brain  273 

and  was  tackling  China  to  get  to  the  Russian  lines.  It 
was  his  idea  for  the  Russians  to  capture  him,  and,  inci 
dentally,  to  show  him  how  they  could  defend  Liaoyang. 
In  a  word,  he  was  eluding  Japan,  bluffing  his  way  through 
the  interior  of  China,  and  about  to  enforce  certain  hos 
pitality  from  the  Russians.  A  great  soul — in  this  little 
man,  Butzel. 

Routledge  delighted  in  him,  but  feared  for  his  life. 
He  himself  was  playing  a  similar  lone-hand,  but  he 
carried  Red-beard  insignia,  purchased  at  a  big  price; 
and  when  he  had  ventured  into  a  river  or  sea- junk,  he 
had  taken  pains  to  arrange  that  his  receipt  for  a  certain 
extortion  was  hung  high  on  the  foremast.  Thus  was 
he  ever  approved  by  the  fascinating  brotherhood  of  junk 
pirates.  These  were  details  entirely  above  the  Butzel 
purse  and  inclination.  The  two  men  parted  in  fine  spirit 
after  an  hour,  the  adventurer  urging  his  Chinese  up  the 
Taitse  toward  the  Russian  lines.  He  was  not  so  poor 
as  he  had  been,  and  he  yelled  back  joyously  to  Routledge 
that  there  wasn't  enough  trails  in  this  little  piker  of  a 
planet  to  keep  them  from  meeting  again. 

His  words  proved  true.  Poor  Butzel  rode  back  in 
state  that  afternoon,  his  head  fallen  against  the  tiller 
and  a  bullet  hole  in  his  breast.  Even  his  clothing  had 
been  taken.  The  junk  was  empty  except  for  the  body. 
With  a  heavy  heart,  Routledge  attended  to  the  burial 
and  marked  the  spot.  That  night  he  rode  to  Koupangtze, 
and,  by  paying  the  charges,  succeeded  in  arranging  for  a 
brief  message  to  be  cabled  to  the  World-News;  also  a 
telegram  to  the  American  consul  at  Shanghai. 

So  much  is  merely  a  suggestion  of  the  work  that 
told  for  his  paper  that  summer.  For  weeks  at  a  time  he 


274  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

was  in  the  saddle,  or  junking  it  by  sea  and  river.  Except 
when  driven  to  the  telegraph,  he  avoided  every  port  town 
and  every  main-travelled  road.  He  was  lean,  light  but 
prodigiously  strong.  A  trencherman  of  ordinary  valor 
would  have  dragged  out  a  hateful  existence  of  semi- 
starvation  upon  the  rations  that  sufficed  for  Routledge ; 
and  none  but  a  man  in  whom  a  giant's  strength  was  con 
centrated  could  have  followed  his  travels.  The  old  Man- 
churian  trails  burned  under  his  ponies;  and,  queerly 
enough,  he  never  ruined  a  mount.  He  had  left  Shanghai 
on  the  first  of  February,  ill  from  confinement,  the  crowds, 
and  his  long  sojourn  in  the  great  heat  of  India.  The 
hard  physical  life  at  sea  in  the  Liao  gulf  and  afield  in 
Manchuria,  and,  possibly  more  than  anything,  his  life 
apart  from  the  English,  restored  him  to  a  health  of  the 
finest  and  toughest  texture. 

China  challenged  him.  He  never  could  feel  the  ten 
derness  of  regard  for  the  Yellow  Empire  that  India  in 
spired,  but  it  held  an  almost  equal  fascination.  China 
dwelt  in  a  duller,  more  alien  light  to  his  eyes ;  the  people 
were  more  complicated,  less  placable  and  lovable,  than 
Hindus,  but  the  same  mysterious  stillness,  the  same 
dust  of  ages,  he  found  in  both  interiors;  and  in  both 
peoples  the  same  imperturbable  patience  and  unfathom 
able  capacity  to  suffer  and  be  silent.  Routledge  moved 
in  towns  almost  as  unknown  to  the  world  as  the  Martian 
surfaces ;  learned  enough  of  the  confusion  of  tongues  to 
procure  necessities;  supplied  himself  with  documents, 
bearing  the  seals  of  certain  dark  fraternities,  which 
appeared  to  pass  him  from  place  to  place  without  harm ; 
and,  with  a  luck  that  balanced  the  handicap  of  an  outcast, 
and  an  energy,  mental  and  physical,  utterly  impossible 


A  Leak  in  One  Man's  Brain  275 

to  a  man  with  peace  in  his  heart,  he  pushed  through,  up 
to  Liaoyang,  an  almost  incredible  season's  work. 

More  and  more  the  thought  was  borne  upon  him  dur 
ing  July  and  August  that  the  coming  big  battle  would 
bring  to  him  a  change  of  fortune — if  only  a  change  from 
one  desolation  to  another.  He  felt  that  his  war-service 
was  nearing  its  end.  He  did  not  believe  that  Liaoyang 
was  to  end  the  war,  but  he  thought  it  would  close  the 
campaign  for  the  year;  and  he  planned  to  conclude  his 
own  campaign  with  a  vivid  intimate  portrait  of  the 
battle.  Meanwhile  he  hung  afar  from  the  Russian  and 
Japanese  lines,  and  little  Pingyang  had  a  fire  lit  for 
him  and  a  table  spread  when  he  rode  in  from  his 
reconnoissance. 

Late  in  August,  when  the  artillery  began,  Routledge 
crossed  to  the  south  bank  of  the  Taitse  with  a  pair  of 
good  horses,  and  left  them  about  two  miles  to  the  west  of 
the  city  with  a  Pingyang  servant  who  had  proven  trust 
worthy.  On  the  dawn  of  the  thirtieth  he  made  a  wide 
detour  behind  Oku,  nearly  to  Nodzu's  lines,  and  watched 
the  battle  from  Sha  peak — one  of  the  highest  points  of  the 
range.  He  had  studied  Liaoyang  long  through  the 
intricate  Chinese  maps ;  and  as  the  heights  had  cleared 
the  fighting-field  for  Bingley,  so  now  did  Routledge 
grasp  the  topography  from  his  eyrie  during  that  first  day 
of  the  real  battle.  Similarly  also,  he  hit  upon  Kuroki's 
flank  movement  as  the  likeliest  strategy  of  the  Japanese 
aggression,  and  he  came  to  regard  it  as  a  fact  before 
starting  for  the  free  cable  at  Wangcheng  the  following 
night. 

This  day  netted  nothing  in  so  far  as  the  real  battle 
color  was  considered.  That  night  he  closed  up  on  Oku's 


276  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

rear,  crossing  a  big  valley  and  climbing  a  lesser  range. 
Daylight  found  him  in  a  densely  thicketed  slope  over 
looking  the  city  and  the  Japanese  command.  In  that 
hot  red  dawn,  he  beheld  the  bivouac  of  the  Islanders — 
a  crowded  valley  stretching  away  miles  to  the  east  in  the 
fast  lifting  gloom;  leagues  of  stirring  men,  the  faint 
smell  of  wood-smoke  and  trampled  turf,  the  gray,  silent 
city  over  the  reddened  hills,  the  slaty  coil  of  the  river 
behind. 

The  mighty  spectacle  gripped  the  heart  of  the 
watcher ;  and  there  came  to  him,  with  an  awful  but  thrill 
ing  intensity,  the  whole  story  of  the  years  which  had 
prepared  this  amphitheatre  for  blood  on  this  sweet  last 
summer  day.  .  .  .  Oppression  in  Tyrone ;  treachery 
in  India;  the  Anglo-Japanese  alliance;  the  Russo-Japan 
ese  war — a  logical  line  of  cause  and  effect  running  true 
as  destiny,  straight  as  a  sunbeam  through  all  these  huge 
and  scattered  events — holding  all  Asia  in  the  palm  of 
history !  Farther  back,  to  the  Kabul  massacre,  was  to 
be  traced  the  red  history  of  this  day — the  mad  British 
colonel ;  Shubar  Khan !  .  .  .  And  what  did  the 
future  hold  ?  If  Russia  called  the  French  and  Germans  to 
her  aid,  England,  by  treaty,  was  called  to  the  aid  of 
Japan.  America  might  be  drawn  by  the  needs  of  Eng 
land,  or  for  the  protection  of  her  softening  cluster  of 
Philippine  grapes.  Famine  in  a  Tyrone  town ;  a  leak 
in  one  Tyrone  patriot's  brain — and  a  world-war !  .  .  . 

The  click  of  a  rifle  jerked  Routledge  out  of  his 
musings.  A  Japanese  lieutenant  and  a  non-commissioned 
officer  were  standing  twenty  paces  away.  The  enlisted 
man  had  him  covered. 


TWENTY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  STRIKES  A  CONTRAST  BETWEEN  THE 

JAPANESE  EMPEROR  AND  THE  JAPANESE 

FIGHTING  MAN,  WHILE  OKU  CHARGES 

INTO  A  BLIZZARD  OF  STEEL 

QUEERLY  enough,  Routledge's  first  thought  was  that 
the  moment  of  the  wound  had  come,  but  this  was  out  of 
the  question.  These  men  would  not  fire  at  him.  They 
would  send  him  to  the  rear  under  a  guard;  or,  worse, 
escort  him  to  the  command  where  the  other  correspon 
dents  were  held.  The  Englishmen  would  then  suggest 
to  the  Japanese  that  their  captive  had  once  proved  a 
traitor  to  England,  and  that  it  would  be  well  to  look 
deep  into  his  present  business,  lest  he  repeat.  .  .  . 
He  would  miss  the  battle,  be  detained  for  a  Russian  spy 
— and  Noreen  would  hear. 

Routledge  was  ordered  to  approach,  and  obeyed, 
swallowing  Failure.  The  lieutenant  spoke  English,  but 
disdained  to  look  at  proffered  credentials.  The  sergeant 
gripped  Routledge's  arm,  and  his  superior  led  the  way 
down  the  slope  through  the  lines  of  troops.  Many  of  the 
little  soldiers  of  Oku  were  eating  rice  and  drinking  tea 
from  bowls;  some  were  bathing  their  bodies,  others 
cleansing  their  teeth  with  great  zeal,  using  soaps  and 
pointed  sticks.  These  meant  to  be  gathered  unto  their 
fathers  that  day  with  clean  mouths.  Down  and  forward, 
the  American  was  led,  no  word  being  spoken  until  they 
were  in  the  midst  of  Oku's  front.  Here  was  the  field 

i77 


278  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

headquarters  of  some  high  officer  of  the  left  wing.  Rout- 
ledge  breathed  a  hope  that  action  would  be  joined  before 
he  was  ordered  back.  The  unknown  commander  stood 
in  the  centre  of  a  thick  protecting  cordon  of  men.  Evi 
dently  he  was  too  rushed  at  present  to  attend  the  case 
of  the  detained  civilian.  Aides  and  orderlies  spurred 
out  with  despatches,  and  others  riding  in  took  their 
places. 

Three  or  four  minutes  had  passed  when  certain  com 
mands  went  ripping  down  the  unformed  lines  and  action 
was  indeed  joined.  The  lieutenant  was  brushed  away  in 
the  torrent  of  infantry  which  just  now  swept  over  them, 
but  the  sergeant  held  grimly  to  his  prisoner's  arm.  Oku 
had  ordered  the  first  charge  of  the  day.  This  was  the 
reeking  red  splash  on  the  map  of  all  the  world. 

The  soldiers  leaped  over  Routledge  and  his  captor. 
Shielding  his  head  from  their  boots  and  rifle-butts,  the 
American  looked  deep  into  the  sweating  brown  faces 
that  rushed  past — red,  squinting  eyes,  upper  lips  twisted 
with  a  fury  they  could  not  have  explained,  the  snarling 
muscles  drawn  tight — and  not  a  zephyr  of  fear  in  the 
command !  Some  of  the  men  still  had  their  eating-sticks 
and  bowls  and  paper  napkins.  One  stuffed  the  contents 
of  a  dish  of  rice  into  his  mouth  as  he  ran — an  eight- 
pound  rifle  clapped  between  his  elbow  and  ribs. 

The  correspondent  warmed  to  the  human  atoms 
hurtling  by  and  to  the  sergeant  who  stuck  so  fast  to  his 
arm.  There  was  something  tremendous  in  the  delusion 
of  these  poor  pawns  who  were  doing  their  cruel  work  so 
well.  There  was  an  infernal  majesty  in  the  huge  gamble 
for  the  old  gray  walls  of  Liaoyang  on  this  gorgeous 
morning.  .  .  .  War  is  immense  and  final — for  the 


A  Contrast  279 

big  devil-clutched  souls  who  make  it — an  achievement, 
indeed,  to  gather  and  energize  and  hurl  this  great  force 
against  an  enemy,  but  what  a  rotten  imposition  upon  the 
poor  little  obscure  men  who  fight,  not  a  tithe  the  richer 
if  they  take  all  Asia!  So  the  thoughts  of  Routledge 
surged.  Into  the  havoc,  from  time  to  time,  he  threw  a 
sentence,  wrung  from  the  depths  of  his  understanding : 

"...  Once  a  father  threw  his  children  out  of 
the  sleigh  to  hold  back  a  wolf-pack — as  he  whipped  his 
horse  to  the  village.  Would  you  call  such  a  man 
'  father '  ?  .  .  .  Yet  you  call  a  nation  '  fatherland  ' 
that  hurls  you  now  to  the  wolves!  .  .  .  Oh,  ye  of 
mighty  faith !  .  .  .  Pawns — poor  pawns — of  plague, 
famine,  war  around  the  world — God,  tell  us  why  the 
many  are  consumed  to  ashes  at  the  pleasure  of  the  few ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  glorious  Patriotism — what  sins  are  com 
mitted  in  thy  name !  " 

The  great  system  of  Russian  fortifications  now  opened 
fire  upon  the  Japanese  charge.  Men  were  falling.  The 
bulk  of  the  infantry  avalanche  had  passed,  and  smoke 
was  crowding  out  the  distances.  The  long  p-n-n-n-g  of 
the  high  bullets,  and  the  instant  b-zrp  of  the  close  ones, 
were  stimulus  for  that  fast,  clear  thinking  which  so  often 
comes  close  to  death.  Routledge's  brain  seemed  to  hold 
itself  aloof  from  his  body,  the  better  to  grasp  and  syn 
thesize  the  startling  actions  of  the  present. 

The  smoke  blurred  all  but  a  finger-bone  of  the 
valley ;  yet  from  that  part  he  could  reconstruct  the  whole 
horrid  skeleton  of  a  Twentieth-century  crime.  .  .  . 
The  brown  line  of  Japanese  rolled  up  against  the  first 
Russian  trench.  Routledge  thought  of  toy  soldiers, 
heads  bent  forward,  legs  working,  and  guns  of  papier 


280  Routiedge  Rides  Alone 

mache  in  bayonet  charge.  The  works  wore  a  white  ruff 
of  smoke,  and  its  lace  was  swept  by  stray  winds  down 
over  the  fallen.  .  .  . 

The  grip  upon  his  arm  relaxed.  For  a  moment  Rout- 
ledge  thought  he  was  hit,  when  the  blood  rushed  down 
the  veins  of  his  arm  where  the  tightened  fingers  had 
been.  He  was  free — and  at  what  a  cost!  The  little 
sergeant  was  down — his  legs  wriggling  and  beating 
against  the  American's,  the  "  red  badge  of  courage " 
widening  on  his  breast.  Routiedge  bent  over  him  and 
looked  long  into  the  dying  face — forgetting  the  world 
and  the  war,  forgetting  all  but  the  spirit  behind  the  hour. 

The  face  was  brown,  oriental.  In  the  corner  of  the 
mouth  was  a  flake  of  rice,  and  the  coarse-grained  dust 
of  Manchuria  was  over  all.  The  eyes  were  turned  back, 
and  the  ears  were  bad.  Evolution  was  young  in  the 
shape  of  the  head  and  the  cut  of  those  ears — small, 
thick,  close  to  the  skull,  criminal  ears.  But  the  mouth 
was  beautiful!  It  was  carved  as  if  some  God  had  done 
it — and  on  a  fine  morning  when  joy  was  abroad  in  the 
world — and  the  perfection  of  the  human  mouth  was 
the  theme  of  the  day. 

Routiedge  had  not  even  water  to  give,  but  he  said, 
"  Hello." 

Deep  understanding  came  to  him  from  the  dying 
face.  He  saw  what  it  meant  to  this  little  soldier  to 
go  out  for  his  Emperor — saw  the  faith  and  pity  of  it  all. 
It  was  the  smiling  face  of  a  man  who  comes  home  after 
years  of  travail  to  the  marvel  of  a  loved  woman's  arms. 

"  Sayonara!"  the  fine  lips  muttered.  One  of  the 
sweetest  and  saddest  words  of  human  speech — this 
Japanese  farewell. 


A  Contrast  281 

"Sayonara!"  Routledge  repeated.  .  .  .  The  body 
jerked  itself  out,  but  the  smile  remained.  The  whole 
story  of  the  Japanese  conquest  stirred  in  Routledge's 
brain.  It  was  all  in  the  smile  upon  the  face  of  the 
guard — all  in  that  one  perishable  portrait  of  joy. 

Routledge  had  once  seen  the  Emperor  for  whom  this 
soldier  died  with  a  smile.  Though  it  was  forenoon,  he 
had  been  forced  to  put  on  evening-clothes  for  the  Pres 
ence.  Mutsuhuito  came  back  to  his  mind  as  he  bent  over 
the  fresh  corpse.  .  .  . 

"  He  has  no  such  mouth  as  yours,  little  sergeant,"  he 
said  in  a  swift,  strange  fashion.  "  His  head  is  not  so 
good  as  your  hard,  bad  head,  though  his  ears  are  better. 
He  was  dazed  with  champagne,  as  you  have  never  been. 
He  had  the  look  of  an  epileptic,  and  they  had  to  bring 
him  a  red-blooded  woman  of  the  people  to  get  a  son 
from  him — and  that  son  a  defective!  ...  A  soft, 
inbred  pulp  of  a  man,  without  strength  of  will  or  hand  or 
brain,  and  God  only  knows  what  rudiment  of  a  soul — 
such  is  the  Lord  of  Ten  Thousand  Years,  whom  you  die 
for  with  a  smile.  You  are  greater  than  the  Empire  you 
serve,  little  sergeant — greater  than  the  Emperor  you  die 
for;  since  he  is  not  even  a  clean  abstraction.  .  .  . 
God  pity  you — God  pity  you  all !  " 

The  sun  sent  streamers  into  the  white  smoke  drapery 
upon  the  Russian  bank.  The  Island  Empire  men  were 
thrashing  against  it.  They  met  with  their  breasts  the 
fire  that  spurted  continuously  from  the  ledges.  One 
man  of  a  Japanese  company  lived  to  gain  the  top  of  the 
.trench.  He  was  skewered  on  Russian  bayonets  and 
shaken  down  among  his  writhing  fellow-soldiers,  as  the 
wing  of  a  chicken  is  served  upon  a  waiting  plate.  Run- 


282  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

ning,  crawling,  Routledge  made  has  way  down  and 
forward. 

The  Japanese  hope  lives  high  above  the  loss  of  com 
panies.  It  was  a  glad  morning  for  the  Island  Empire 
men,  a  bright  task  they  were  given  to  do.  Other  com 
panies,  full  quota,  were  shot  forward  to  tread  upon  the 
dead  and  beat  themselves  to  death  against  the  entrench 
ment.  A  third  torrent  was  rolled  against  the  Russians 
before  the  second  had  suffered  a  complete  blood-letting. 
.  .  .  Routledge  saw  one  five-foot  demon  wielding 
his  rifle-butt  upon  the  rim  of  the  trench,  in  the  midst  of 
gray  Russian  giants.  For  an  instant  he  was  a  human 
tornado,  filled  with  the  idea  to  kill — that  Brownie — then 
he  was  sucked  down  and  stilled.  Routledge  wondered 
if  they  completely  wiped  out  the  little  man's  smile  at 
the  last. 

He  was  ill  from  the  butchery,  and  his  mind  was  prone 
to  grope  away  from  the  bleeding  heart  of  things ;  still, 
he  missed  little  of  the  great  tragedy  which  unfolded  in 
the  smoke.  And  always  Oku,  unparalleled  profligate  of 
men,  coiled  up  his  companies  and  sprung  them  against  a 
position  which  Napoleon  would  have  called  impregnable 
— Oku,  whose  voice  was  quiet  as  a  mystic's  prayer.  The 
thought  came  to  Routledge  that  the  women  of  America 
would  tear  down  the  capitol  at  Washington  with  their 
hands,  if  the  walls  contained  a  monster  who  had  spent 
the  blood  of  their  sons  and  lovers  as  Oku  was  doing 
now. 

A  new  tumult  in  the  air!  It  was  like  an  instant 
horrid  crash  of  drums  in  the  midst  of  a  violin  solo. 
Artillery  now  roared  down  upon  Oyama's  left  wing. 
.  .  .  The  wildest  dream  of  hell  was  on.  Routledge, 


A  Contrast  283 

crawling  westward  through  the  pit  of  fire,  saw  a  platoon 
of  infantry  smashed  as  a  cue-ball  shatters  a  fifteen  block 
in  pool.  .  .  .  Westward  under  the  Russian  guns,  he 
crawled  through  the  sun-shot,  smoke-charged  shambles, 
miraculously  continuing  alive  in  that  thick,  steady,  anni 
hilating  blizzard  of  steel — his  brain  desperate  with  the 
rush  of  images  and  the  shock  of  sounds.  Over  a  blood- 
wet  turf  he  crawled,  among  the  quivering  parts  of 
men.  .  .  . 

Silence.  Oku  stopped  to  breathe  and  pick  up  the 
fragments.  .  .  .  From  far  up  on  the  Russian  works 
— it  was  like  the  celestial  singing  in  the  ears  of  the 
dying — began  a  distant,  thrilling  music.  Some  regiment 
or  brigade,  swinging  into  the  intrenchments  to  relieve  a 
weary  command,  had  burst  into  song.  .  .  .  Once 
before  Routledge  had  caught  a  touch  of  this  enchant 
ment,  during  the  Boxer  Rebellion.  He  had  never  been 
able  to  forget  Jerry  Cardinegh's  telling  of  the  Russian 
battle-hymns  at  Plevna.  .  .  .  Great  emotions  bowed 
him  now.  Another  terrace  of  defense  caught  up  the 
song,  and  the  winds  that  cleared  the  reeking  valley  of 
smoke  carried  along  the  vibrant  inspiration.  Every  Rus 
sian  heart  gripped  the  grand  contagion.  From  terrace 
to  terrace,  from  trench  to  trench,  from  pit  to  emplace 
ment,  that  glorious  thunder  stalked,  a  company,  a  bat 
tery,  a  brigade,  at  a  stride.  Each  voice  was  a  raw, 
dust-bitten  shout — the  whole  a  majestic  harmony,  from 
the  cannon-meat  of  Liaoyang !  Sons  of  the  North,  gray, 
sodden,  sorrow-stunted  men  of  pent  misery  and  unlit 
souls — Finlander,  Siberian,  Caspian,  Caucasian — hurl 
ing  forth  their  heart-hunger  in  a  tumult  of  song  that 
shook  the  continent.  The  spirit  of  All  the  Russias  giving 


284  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

tongue — the  tragedy  of  Poland,  the  clank  of  chains,  the 
mockery  of  palaces,  the  iron  pressure  of  frost,  the  wail 
of  the  wolf-pack  on  frozen  tundras,  the  cry  of  the 
crushed,  the  blind  groping  of  the  human  to  God — it 
was  all  in  that  rhythmic  roar,  all  the  dreadful  annals  of 
a  decadent  people. 

As  it  was  born,  so  it  died, — that  music, — from  terrace 
to  terrace,  the  last  wavering  chant  from  out  the  city 
walls.  The  little  Japanese  made  no  answer.  Routledge 
could  not  help  but  see  the  mark  of  the  beast  in  contrast. 
It  wasn't  the  Russians  that  bothered  Oku,  but  the  Rus 
sian  position.  Kuroki  would  pull  them  out  of  that. 
.  .  .  Song  or  steel,  they  would  take  Liaoyang.  They 
prepared  to  charge  again. 

In  the  disorder  of  the  next  charge  Routledge  crossed 
the  railroad  and  passed  out  of  the  Japanese  lines.  Late 
afternoon,  as  he  hurried  westward  for  his  horses,  he 
met  the  eyes  of  Bingley.  He  was  not  given  a  chance  to 
pass  another  way.  The  race  for  the  cable  was  on. 


TWENTY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

ROUTLEDGE  ENCOUNTERS  THE  "HORSE-KILLER"  ON 

THE  FIELD  OF  LIAOYANG,  AND  THEY  RACE 

FOR  THE  UNCENSORED  CABLE 

AT  SHANHAIKWAN 

To  each  man  the  intention  of  the  other  was  clear  as 
the  purpose  of  a  fire-department's  run.  One  of  them 
would  file  the  first  uncensored  story  of  the  great  battle. 
Bingley  had  given  up  his  chance  to  follow  the  Japanese 
army,  and  had  set  his  stony  face  to  freedom  for  this 
end — and  England  could  not  have  horsed  a  man  more 
unwhippable.  Routledge,  striding  into  the  sunset,  toward 
the  place  he  had  left  his  mounts,  discovered  with  a  smile 
that  his  pace  was  quickening,  quickening.  The  char 
acter  of  the  man  just  passed  was  an  inspiration  to  rivalry. 
Moreover,  from  a  newspaper  standpoint,  the  issue  at 
hand  was  big  among  dreams.  The  Great  God,  News,  is 
a  marvellous  master.  Would  England  or  America  be 
first  to  connect  with  Manchuria  by  wire?  World-News 
or  Thames?  If  New  York  beat  London,  Dartmore  would 
trace  the  story.  .  .  .  Dartmore  had  been  a  savage. 
Bingley  had  been  a  savage. 

Routledge  laughed  aloud.  He  had  long  since  put 
away  any  resentment  toward  either  of  these  men,  but 
there  was  vim,  and  glow,  in  getting  into  the  struggle 
again.  He  felt  that  he  had  earned  his  entry  to  this  race. 
He  had  counted  upon  taking  the  chances  of  discovery. 
Already  Bingley  had  seen  him,  and  the  word  would  go 

285 


286  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

back ;  but  the  result  of  it  would  require  time.  He  had  long 
planned  to  close  his  own  campaign  for  the  year,  even  if 
the  Japanese  pushed  on  to  Mukden.  He  would  go 
deeper,  past  following,  into  China — even  to  the  Leper 
Valley. 

It  was  a  momentous  incident  to  Routledge — this 
meeting  with  the  "  Horse-killer."  The  quick,  startled, 
sullen  look  on  the  face  of  Bingley — not  a  flicker  of  a 
smile,  not  even  a  scornful  smile,  to  answer  his  own — 
had  meant  that  Cardinegh,  dead  or  alive,  had  not  told. 

Bingley  found  the  highway  two  miles  west  of  the 
railroad,  and  spurred  south  in  the  darkness  at  the  rate 
of  about  seven  miles  an  hour.  He  meant  to  do  six  or 
seven  hours  of  this  before  resting  his  mount.  .  .  . 
Between  twelve  and  one  in  the  morning — and  at  most 
twenty  miles  to  go!  If  there  was  anything  left  in  his 
horse,  after  an  hour's  rest,  so  much  the  better.  Otherwise 
he  could  do  it  on  foot,  crossing  the  river  above  Fengma- 
rong  by  six  in  the  morning.  This  would  leave  two  hours 
for  the  last  two  or  three  miles  into  Wangcheng.  As  for 
the  other,  without  a  mount,  Bingley  did  not  concede  it  to 
be  within  human  possibility  for  him  to  reach  the  Chinese 
Eastern  at  any  point  to-morrow  morning.  Evidently 
Routledge  had  not  planned  to  get  away  so  soon.  It 
would  take  eighteen  hours  at  least  to  reach  Wangcheng 
by  the  river,  and  Routledge,  aiming  westward,  seemed 
to  have  this  route  in  view.  .  .  ;  With  all  his  con 
jecturing,  Bingley  could  find  no  peace  of  mind.  Even 
if  Routledge  had  not  planned  to  reach  travelled-lines 
to-morrow,  would  not  the  sight  of  a  rival,  with  his  speed 
signals  out  and  whistling  for  right  of  way,  stir  him  to 
competition  ?  Such  was  his  respect  for  the  man  who  had 


The  "Horse-Killer"  287 

passed  on,  that  Bingley  could  not  find  serenity  in  judg 
ing  the  actions  and  acumen  of  Routledge  by  ordinary 
weights  and  measures. 

Any  other  British  correspondent  would  have  hailed 
the  outcast  with  the  old  welcome,  notwithstanding  the 
race-challenge  which  his  appearance  involved.  On  the 
morning  he  left  Tokyo,  five  months  before,  Bingley  had 
also  promised  Miss  Cardinegh  to  carry  the  news  of  her 
father's  confession  and  death  to  Routledge,  if  he  should 
be  the  first  to  find  him.  It  did  not  occur  to  Bingley  now, 
isolated  as  he  had  been  so  long,  that  this  was  the  first 
time  Routledge  had  been  seen.  Moreover,  in  their  last 
meeting,  at  the  Army  and  Navy  ball,  there  had  been  a 
brief  but  bitter  passage  of  words.  Bingley  was  not  the 
man  to  make  an  overture  when  there  was  a  chance  of  its 
being  repelled.  Finally,  the  sudden  discovery  of  a 
trained  man,  with  carnage  behind  and  the  cable  ahead, 
was  a  juggernaut  which  crushed  the  life  from  every 
other  thought  in  his  brain. 

Routledge  found  his  horses  in  excellent  condition. 
The  Chinese  whom  he  had  brought  from  Pingyang  had 
proved  faithful  before,  but  with  all  the  natives,  not 
alone  the  banditti  and  river-thieves,  emboldened  by  the 
war,  the  safe  holding  of  his  property  was  a  joy  indeed. 
At  seven  in  the  evening,  the  sky  black  with  gathering 
storm,  he  left  his  servant,  rich  in  taels  and  blessings, 
and  turned  westward  along  the  Taitse  River  road.  This 
was  neither  the  best  nor  the  shortest  way,  but  Routledge 
preferred  to  be  impeded  by  ruts,  even  by  chasms,  than 
by  Japanese  sentries.  With  Bingley's  full  panoply  of 
credentials  it  would  have  been  different. 

Sixty-five  miles  to  ride,  a  river  to  cross,  an  audi- 


288  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

ence  with  Consul  Milner,  a  train  to  catch,  to  say  nothing 
of  enforced  delays  by  the  possible  interest  of  the  Japan 
ese  in  his  movements — all  in  fourteen  hours. 

As  Bingley  conjectured,  the  chance  meeting  had 
hastened  the  plan  of  Routledge.  He  had  intended  to 
reach  Wangcheng  the  following  day,  but  by  no  means 
in  time  for  the  morning  train ;  in  fact,  he  had  determined 
to  tarry  at  the  American  consulate  until  the  decision 
from  the  battle  should  come  in.  Wangcheng  had 
changed  hands  since  his  last  call  at  the  port,  but  he 
counted  on  the  wise  and  winning  American  to  be  as  finely 
appreciated  by  the  Japanese  as  he  had  been  by  the  Rus 
sians.  Milner  would  get  the  returns  from  the  battle 
almost  as  soon  as  the  Japanese  commander  at  the  base. 
The  one  word  victory  or  defeat,  and  a  line  covering  the 
incidental  strategic  cause,  was  all  that  Routledge  needed 
for  a  startling  story.  He  had  mastered  the  field,  and 
Oku  had  supplied  a  rainbow  of  pigments. 

Bingley,  having  left  the  field,  would  not  loiter  on 
the  road  to  the  cable,  nor  would  he  halt  before  reaching 
an  uncensored  cable — therefore  Shanhaikwan  to-morrow 
night!  Routledge  did  not  care  to  accept  second  place, 
if  hard  riding  would  win  first.  He  faced  the  longer 
journey,  and  also  set  apart  an  hour  before  train-time 
for  an  interview  with  the  Consul.  It  was  eminently  plain 
to  him  that  this  day  had  marked  the  crisis  of  the  greai 
battle,  even  if  it  had  not  already  ended  with  nightfall. 
The  unparalleled  fury  of  Oku's  assaults  was  significant 
to  this  effect.  To-morrow  would  doubtless  bring  the 
verdict ;  and  all  day  to-morrow  he  would  be  on  train  to 
Shanhaikwan,  in  touch  with  Milner  by  wire  at  every 
station.  Even  if  he  reached  the  cable  with  the  battle 


The  "Horse-Killer"  289 

still  raging,  he  could  file  the  story  of  the  great  conflict, 
as  it  was  synthesized  in  one  man's  brain — up  to  the  point 
of  the  historic  last  sentence.  .  .  .  Even  as  he  rode, 
the  lines  and  sentences  fused  in  his  mind,  a  colorful, 
dashing,  galvanic  conception  that  burned  for  expression. 

On  and  on,  hours  and  miles ;  cloud-bursts  and  flashes 
of  lightning  to  show  the  trail  ahead — until  he  came  to 
doubt  his  watch,  even  the  dawn  of  a  new  day,  in  the 
piessure  of  the  illusion  formed  of  dragging  hours  and 
darkened  distances. 

The  rains  helped  to  keep  his  mounts  fresh.  Every 
two  hours  he  changed.  The  beasts  had  been  long 
together,  and  either  led  with  a  slackened  thong.  He  ran 
them  very  little,  and  it  was  after  midnight  before  he 
dulled  the  fine  edge  of  their  fettle.  They  were  tough, 
low-geared  Tartar  beasts,  heavy-breasted,  short  in  the 
pasterns,  and  quartered  like  hunters — built  for  rough 
trails  and  rough  wear.  Routledge  slapped  and  praised 
them,  riding  light.  It  would  take  more  than  one  gruelling 
night  under  such  a  horseman  to  break  their  hearts. 

Two  hours  after  midnight  the  rain  ceased,  and  the 
wrung  clouds  parted  for  the  moon.  The  hill  country 
was  passed.  Routledge  moved  swiftly  along  the  river- 
flats.  It  was  the  second  night  he  had  not  slept,  and  his 
fatigue  was  no  trifle,  but  he  was  drilled  to  endure.  It 
was  not  in  him  to  make  a  strongly  reckonable  matter  out 
of  muscular  stiffness  and  cuticle  abrasions.  True,  rain 
softens  the  glaze  of  a  saddle,  and  long  riding  on  the 
sticky  leather  tears  the  limbs,  but  Routledge  had  a  body 
that  would  obey  so  long  as  consciousness  lasted.  He 
used  it  that  night. 

Five-thirty  in  the  morning ;  daylight ;  sixty  miles 
19 


290  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

put  behind.  Ahead  far  in  the  new  day  he  discerned  the 
Japanese  outposts  of  Fengmarong ;  and  on  the  right  hand 
was  the  big,  mottled  Liao,  swollen  with  flood.  If  he  were 
to  be  detained  by  the  Japanese,  he  preferred  it  to  be  on 
the  opposite  bank — the  Wangcheng  side.  Routledge  rode 
up  to  the  ferry-scow  and  called  for  service.  Yellow 
babies  were  playing  like  cinnamon-cubs  on  the  shore ;  two 
women  were  cooking  rice  and  fish ;  two  men  were  asleep 
in  the  sail-tackle.  These  he  aroused.  They  helped  him 
with  the  horses,  half-lifting  the  weary,  trembling  beasts 
aboard.  Cups  of  tea;  rice  with  black  dressing,  as  the 
scow  made  the  opposite  landing  at  a  forty-five  degree 
angle!  A  quick  and  safe  crossing;  and  two  hours  for 
the  Japanese  lines,  the  American  Consul,  and  the  Chinese 
Eastern!  ...  A  distant  call  through  the  morning 
light!  Bingley,  horseless,  imperiously  demands  the 
return  of  the  craft  to  the  Fengmorang  bank. 

Routledge  had  hoped  to  be  missed  by  the  other,  a* 
least  until  train-time.  He  smiled  at  the  compelling  inci 
dents  of  the  race  thus  far,  and  at  the  surpassing  prospects, 
— even  though  he  chilled  at  the  thought  that  the  Japanese 
in  Wangcheng  would  have  big  excuse  to  detain  him  if 
Bingley  intimated  that  his  rival  had  once  betrayed  Eng 
land  to  the  Russian  spies  on  the  Indian  border.  Consul 
Milner  would  sweat,  indeed,  to  free  him  against 
that.  .  .  . 

Yet  Routledge  had  a  feeling  that  he  would  win 
against  Bingley.  Work  had  always  favored  him.  So  far 
he  had  borne  out  the  prophecy  that  he  would  not  be 
wounded  in  battle,  in  a  manner  past  astonishment.  It 
was  no  less  than  a  miracle — his  escape  from  the  firing 
of  both  armies  at  Liaoyang.  Often  during  the  night-ride 


The  "Horse-Killer"  291 

he  had  thought  of  the  wound  that  was  to  come  to  him — 
thought  with  a  chill  of  dread  of  the  lawless  country  he 
passed  through.  Now,  with  Wangcheng  ahead,  and 
in  touch  with  the  safe-lines  of  foreign-travel — the 
chance  seemed  minimized  once  more.  There  must  be 
significance  in  this.  .  .  .  He  looked  back  and  saw 
the  Chinese  beating  up  against  the  river  to  the  Fenma- 
rong  landing,  where  Bingley  waited,  doubtless  frothing 
his  curb. 

At  the  edge  of  the  town  Routledge  was  arrested  by 
a  five-foot  Japanese  sentry,  and  was  locked  with  his 
world  tidings  in  a  garrison,  lately  Russian,  which  over 
looked  Wangcheng's  little  square.  He  wrote  "  A.  V. 
Weed  "  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  asked  to  have  it  taken  to 
Consul  Milner;  then  sat  down  by  the  barred  window  to 
watch  the  Consulate  across  the  Square.  It  was  now  seven 
o'clock.  The  train  left  in  an  hour,  and  the  station  was  a 
mile  away.  Minutes  dragged  by. 

An  enlivening  spectacle  from  the  window.  The 
''  Horse-killer  "  is  being  borne  across  the  Square  under 
a  Japanese  guard!  The  little  sentries  at  the  edge  of 
town  have  been  busy,  this  sweet-smelling  morning  after 
the  rain !  Even  at  the  distance,  Routledge  perceives  that 
the  Englishman's  face  is  warmed  with  a  lust  for  murder , 
and  he  hears  the  Englishman's  voice  demanding  his 
Consul.  Bingley  is  borne  into  the  garrison,  and  his 
voice  and  step  are  heard  throughout  the  halls.  The 
voice  continues — as  he  is  locked  in  the  apartment  next  to 
Routledge's. 

Fifteen  dreadful  minutes.  Bingley  is  a  noisy,  un 
lovely  devil  in  the  next  room,  beating  against  his  bars. 
Routledge  remembers  what  Hans  Breittmann  said  of  the 


292  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

i 

caged  orang-outang :  "  There  is  too  much  ego  in  his 
cosmos."  The  "  Horse-killer  "  does  not  know  that  his 
rival  is  so  near — as  he  cries  unto  his  heaven  of  martial 
law,  for  artillery  to  shoot  his  way  out  of  this  town  of 
beastly,  pig-headed  Japanese  coolies !  .  .  .  A  Consul 
appears  in  the  Square.  It  is  not  the  natty  Milner,  but 
an  elderly  Briton,  with  a  cane  and  a  presence.,  who  just 
now  asks  to  be  shown  to  Mr.  Bingley.  .  .  .  The 
two  talk  softly  for  several  minutes — a  harsh  interval  for 
Routledge. 

"  I  shall  do  what  I  can  as  promptly  as  possible,  Mr. 
Bingley — trust  me,"  concludes  the  Consul,  and  his  cane 
sounds  upon  the  flags  once  more — diminuendo. 

"  Remember,  I  must  be  on  my  way  at  once,"  the 
"  Horse-killer  "  shouts  after  him. 

Seven-twenty.  Where  was  Milner?  .  .  .  Rout- 
ledge  wondered  bitterly  if  the  Gods  of  War  had  turned 
their  faces  from  him  at  last.  A  low  laugh  from  Bingley. 
Milner  was  crossing  the  Square  hastily,  but  did  not 
approach  the  garrison — instead  was  admitted  to  the  big 
building  occupied  by  the  Japanese  headquarters. 

"  God,  I'd  hate  to  have  to  depend  upon  an  American 
Consul  at  a  time  like  this,"  is  heard  from  the  "  Horse- 
killer." 

Routledge's  nerve  was  taxed  to  smile  at  this.  .  .  . 
Seven-thirty.  Consul  Milner  reappears  in  the  Square, 
this  time  followed  by  two  Japanese  officers  of  rank. 
.  .  .  Routledge's  door  is  unlocked,  and  he  is  called 
out  into  the  hall. 

"  This  is  the  gentleman — and  I'll  vouch  for  him," 
Milner  observes,  holding  out  his  hand  to  Routledge. 
"  Weed,  my  boy,  how  are  you  ?  Missed  the  train  last 


The  "Horse-Killer"  293 

night  at  Yopanga,  I  suppose,  and  came  down  the  river. 
Didn't  you  know  we're  a  closed  port  down  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  knew  you  were  here,  Consul.  The 
battle's  on  at  Liaoyang,  I  understand." 

The  eyes  of  the  men  managed  to  meet.  The  Japanese 
officers  bowed  politely,  and  the  two  Americans  left  the 
garrison.  .  .  .  Bingley's  voice  is  loudly  upraised. 
The  Japanese  officers  politely  inform  him  that  the  order 
for  his  release  has  not  yet  reached  them. 

"  Milner,"  said  Routledge,  "  would  it  complicate 
matters  if  I  fell  upon  your  neck  and  wept  ?  " 

"  Wait  till  we  catch  the  train,  Weed.  That's  what 
you  want,  isn't  it  ?  "  the  Consul  whispered. 

"  Badly." 

"  So  I  concluded  when  I  got  the  slip  from  you. 
That's  why  I  went  to  headquarters  to  fix  things  before 
coming  here — saved  a  few  minutes.  Also  I  told  my 
Chino  to  get  up  the  carriage.  It'll  be  ready.  .  .  . 
Our  British  friend  will  have  to  get  his  business  trans 
acted  at  once  or  he  won't  get  off  for  Shanhaikwan  this 
morning.  .  .  .  Great  God,  Weed,  did  you  get  the 
battle— any  of  it?" 

"  I  was  with  the  left  wing  all  day  yesterday,  Consul — 
it  seems  like  a  month  ago.  Oku  was  beating  his  brains 
out  against  the  Russian  intrenchments." 

They  were  crossing  the  Square.  Bingley's  voice 
reached  them :  "  Oh,  I  say,  American  Consul,  prod  up 
my  man  a  bit — won't  you  ?  " 

The  agonized  face  behind  the  bars  took  the  edge  off 
his  own  success  to  Routledge.  He  knew  what  these 
moments  meant  to  the  "  Horse-killer." 

"  Unfortunately,  I'm  not  on  speaking  terms  with  the 


294  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

British  Consul,"  Milner  observed  lightly  to  Routledge, 
as  they  hurried  to  the  carriage. 

"  I  take  it  that  Kuroki  has  crossed  the  Taitse — 
what  have  you  heard  ?  "  Routledge  inquired  quickly. 

"  Just  that  much,"  Milner  replied.  "  The  Japanese 
here  say  that  Oyama  will  enter  the  city  to-day.  Kuroki 
pontooned  the  river  two  days  ago.  What  you  saw  was 
the  terrific  effort  of  the  Japanese  to  hold  the  bulk  of  the 
Russian  army  in  the  city  and  below  while  Kuroki 
flanked." 

"  Exactly.  I'm  doing  the  story  on  those  lines.  I'll 
be  in  Shanhaikwan  to-night.  You'll  get  the  decision 
to-day  probably — wire  me  anywhere  along  the  route, 
Consul?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  The  World-News  will  get  you  Tokyo  for  your  next 
post,"  Routledge  said  with  a  laugh.  "  All  I  need  is  the 
single  sentence — '  Oyama  wins '  or  '  Oyama  loses.' 
By  the  way,  the  Japanese  have  got  two  good  horses  of 
min€ " 

"  I'll  see  to  them." 

The  carriage  reached  the  station  at  two  minutes  before 
eight. 

"  It  looks  as  if  you  had  it  all  your  own  way,  Weed," 
Milner  observed  with  a  laugh.  "  God !  you've  got  the 
world  at  your  feet — the  greatest  newspaper  chance  in 
years.  You'll  give  'em  a  story  that  will  rip  up  the 
States.  Show  'em  pictures — never  mind  the  featureless 
skeleton — show  'em  pictures,  Weed !  " 

"  I'll  try,  Consul,"  said  Routledge,  with  feeling. 

The  station-boys  were  clanging  their  bells.    The  eyes 


The  "Horse-Killer"  295 

of  both  men  were  fixed  upon  a  clot  of  dust  far  down  the 
road. 

"Weed,  my  boy,"  said  Milner  excitedly,  "the  race 
isn't  won  yet.  Your  rival  is  going  to  make  the  train." 

The  huge  figure  of  the  "  Horse-killer  "  was  sprinting 
toward  them,  less  than  two  hundred  yards  away. 

"So  I  observe,"  said  Routledge.  "You'll  have  to 
give  me  one  more  lift,  Consul.  A  man  who  can  run 
like  that  will  be  rather  hard  to  beat  over  the  half-mile 
course  from  the  train  to  the  cable-office  in  Shanhaikwan 
at  seven  to-night.  Wire  Borden,  the  American  Combined 
Press  man  there,  to  arrange  for  me  at  the  cable-office, 
and  to  meet  me  when  the  train  pulls  in  to-night,  with  the 
fastest  saddle-horse  in  Shanhaikwan — none  but  the  fast 
est  will  do.  I'll  win  the  half-mile !  " 

The  train  was  leaving  the  station.  Bingley  caught  the 
railing  of  the  first-class  coach,  swung  on,  and  staggered 
by  Routledge  into  the  car.  Milner  signified  with  a  final 
gesture  that  he  would  look  after  the  rights  of  America 
and  the  World-News.  Bingley,  panting  hoarsely,  was 
stretched  out  in  his  compartment  when  the  American 
entered.  He  did  not  look  up,  and  no  word  passed 
between  them.  For  a  moment  Routledge  hoped  it  might 
be  different — that  day  might  bring  to  him  something  of 
the  life  or  death  of  Jerry  Cardinegh.  As  the  alleged 
author  of  the  Indian  treachery,  he  could  not  bring  him 
self  to  seek  the  other's  notice.  He  wondered  if  Bingley 
had  used  the  crime  charged  against  him,  to  hold  him  in 
Wangcheng.  This  would  have  been  natural;  certainly 
he  had  whispered  to  the  British  Consul  in  the  garrison. 
At  all  events,  the  swiftness  of  Milner's  efforts  in  his 


296  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

behalf  had  killed  the  result  of  such  an  intent.    Routledge 
fell  asleep.    It  was  after  ten  when  he  awoke. 

The  "  Horse-killer "  was  writing  steadily,  swiftly, 
fighting  sleep,  his  eyes  cocked  open  like  a  stuffed  bird's, 
and  referring  often  to  a  carefully  crowded  note-book,  the 
like  of  which  he  had  carried  in  India.  .  .  .  Rout- 
ledge  started  on  his  story.  An  hour's  sleep  had  quieted 
his  brain  a  trifle.  Before,  his  thoughts  had  darted  about, 
like  tumbler  pigeons  at  play — in  that  queer  light  fashion 
of  extreme  fatigue.  With  the  structure  placed,  he  began 
to  spend  the  great  coiled  chronicle  at  a  swift,  steady 
pressure.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  turned  loose  all 
that  he  had  for  a  newspaper.  The  hurl  of  power  glori 
fied  him  for  the  time — work's  chaste  and  lofty  joy— 
until  he  was  beyond  misery  or  any  earthly  evil.  Without 
thinking,  he  turned  to  Bingley  at  last : 

"We  both  want  the  free  cable  at  Shanhaikwan,"  he 
said  briefly.  "  One  of  us  will  reach  it  first.  It  might 
be  well  to  arrange  for  the  winner  to  turn  over  the  wire 
— at  the  end  of,  say,  two  hours — then  both  London  and 
New  York  would  have  the  story  in  the  morning." 

"  No,"  said  the  "  Horse-killer  "  coldly.  "  I  shall  put 
on  whole  story  at  once,  and  there  will  be  five  columns  or 
more  of  it." 

Routledge  laughed  inwardly,  surprised  at  himself  for 
speaking,  and  just  a  little  appalled  at  the  grim  nerve  of 
the  other.  In  the  great  glow  from  his  work,  he  had 
followed  a  generous  impulse  to  give  Bingley  and  the 
Thames  a  chance  that  night — on  the  basis  of  his  meeting 
a  man  at  Shanhaikwan,  with  the  best  horse  in  the  town. 
In  the  emancipation  of  high  expression,  the  sense  of 
rivalry  had  been  lost,  and  he  saw  that  Bingley  was 


The  "Horse-Killer"  297 

entitled  to  no  little  consideration,  even  if  he  were  beaten 
by  a  nose  to  the  cable-door.  Routledge  went  on  with  his 
work,  his  compunctions  eased. 

At  Koupangtse,  the  half-way  station,  there  was  a 
stop  for  ten  minutes.  Bingley  improved  the  time  by  close 
conversation  with  an  Englishman  on  the  station  platform. 
Routledge,  who  remained  in  his  compartment,  wondered 
with  animation,  as  Bingley  passed  the  other  a  sum  of 
money,  if  he  were  arranging  with  the  Englishman  to 
telegraph  for  a  horse  to  meet  him  at  the  train  in  Shan- 
haikwan.  Could  there  be  two  fastest  horses  at  the  end 
of  the  run? 

All  that  afternoon,  as  they  crossed  the  brownest,  most 
level  and  ancient  country  on  earth,  two  correspondents 
toiled  with  words  and  a  battle.  At  the  little  town  of 
Shenkau,  Routledge  heard  the  name  of  "  Weed  "  called 
in  a  laughable  intonation  by  a  Chinese  boy  on  the  plat 
form.  He  reached  out  and  took  the  telegram.  Milner 
had  not  allowed  a  single  sentence  to  suffice.  Here  is  the 
message : 

Oyama  entered  Liaoyang  to-day.  Russians  in  flight  to 
Mukden.  Russian  rear-guard  still  fighting.  Flanking  movement 
successful.  Show  'em  pictures. 

The  gods  of  war  had  been  good  to  him,  indeed.  He 
ran  the  telegram  entire,  at  the  head  of  his  story.  An 
hour  later  the  Great  Wall  appeared  to  his  tired  eyes. 
His  capacity  to  express  or  thrill  at  a  thought  was  utterly 
gone.  Every  film  of  the  battle  which  his  brain  had 
caught,  all  that  he  had  desired  to  say,  had  been  re-done 
in  pencil.  He  folded  the  sheets  and  put  them  away  with 
his  credentials  and  cable- frank.  The  early  twilight  was 


298  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

soft  and  warm.  The  Great  Wall  cast  a  long  shadow  as 
the  train  passed  through  its  single  break.  The  sea  was 
gilded  and  crimson-touched  with  the  sunset.  Shanhaik- 
wan  station  is  but  a  half-mile  from  the  Wall.  Already 
huts  and  burial-mounds  were  passed — dull  brown  in  the 
dusk.  .  .  .  They  were  in  a  free  land  now ;  the  zone 
of  war  and  censorship  lay  behind.  It  was  a  dramatic 
moment. 

Each  correspondent  arose.  Each  correspondent 
glanced  at  the  heels  of  the  other  and  found  spurs! 

Bingley  made  his  way  toward  the  rear-platform ; 
Routledge  took  the  other.  Leaning  far  out,  as  the  train 
pulled  into  the  station,  Routledge  saw  Borden  and  the 
black  stallion — hopped  off  and  ran  to  him.  A  China- 
boy  holding  the  nervous,  prick-eared  mount  stood  beside 
the  Combined  Press  man.  Routledge  leaped  into  the 
saddle.  With  the  tail  of  his  eye  he  saw  Bingley  rushing 
along  the  platform  toward  a  gray  mount. 

"  They're  looking  for  you  at  the  cable-office,"  Borden 
yelled.  "  Don't  burn  out  the  wire !  " 

Half  of  Europe  and  a  touch  of  Asia  were  represented 
in  the  faces  on  the  platform.  Meeting  the  night-train 
was  the  chief  of  the  day's  social  obligations  in  Shanhaik- 
wan.  To-night  everybody  was  down  to  get  the  last 
fresh  word  from  the  field.  The  crowd  sensed  distantly 
that  rival  correspondents  had  come  in,  and  that  a  great 
newspaper  race  was  on,  from  the  platform  to  the  cable- 
office.  .  .  .  Spurring  across  the  sandy  station-yard, 
the  heart  of  Routledge  lifted  to  the  splendid  spirit  of  the 
game.  He  glanced  around  at  the  beating  hoofs  behind. 
Bingley  was  straining  forward  in  the  saddle,  furiously 
rowelling  his  gray.  .  .  .  Above  the  cheering,  Rout- 


The  "Horse-Killer"  299 

ledge  heard  his  name  called,  and  the  face  of  Talliaferro 
appeared  in  the  crowd,  blurred  as  in  a  dream.  Then  came 
a  voice  that  incited  all  his  senses.  .  .  .  He  did  not 
see  her.  He  thought  it  was  in  his  soul. 

"  Routledge-san !  Win — ride  to  win !  "  Then  a  trail 
ing  "  Routledge  .  .  .  san ! " 

The  Hate  of  London  was  not  in  the  face  of  Talliaferro. 
.  .  .  As  he  rode,  the  heavenly  lifting  of  the  moment 
almost  pulled  him  out  of  the  race  at  hand.  .  .  . 
"  Win — ride  to  win !  .  .  .  Routledge-san ! "  .  .  . 
He  spurred.  The  black  answered.  Veritably,  he  was  a 
night-streak  whirring  cableward.  .  .  .  Routledge 
knew  every  step  of  the  way.  The  day  would  have  been 
lost,  were  he  forced  to  halt  for  direction.  .  .  .  Past 
the  Rest  House,  through  the  mud-hut  quarter,  breaking 
a  detachment  of  Sikh  infantry,  he  led  the  race — Bingley, 
unable  to  gain,  back  in  the  shadows,  shouting,  rowelling ! 

There  was  some  meaning  to  his  words,  but  Routledge 
did  not  think  of  them,  until  the  gun-talk.  .  .  .  One 
shot  stood  out  by  itself — and  four  followed.  .  .  . 
The  black  sprawled.  .  .  .  Routledge  found  himself 
coughing,  but  cleared  grandly  from  the  fallen  mount,  and 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  cable-office.  He  realized  that 
he  had  fallen  with  the  mount,  but  it  made  no  impression. 
His  hands  were  bleeding.  He  met  the  dust  full-length. 
He  knew  that  he  staggered  a  bit  as  the  operator  leaped 
over  the  counter  and  caught  him  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  Weed  of  the  World-News,  .  .  .  Borden 
arranged  for  me.  Here's  the  copy,  credentials,  cable- 
permit." 

"  I've  been  waiting  for  you,  Weed.  .  .  .  You're 
shot — my  God !  " 


300  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Bingley  entered,  his  face  terrible  but  frightened.  He 
glanced  at  the  man  who  had  beaten  him — from  head  to 
foot.  .  .  .  Routledge  was  leaning  against  the  coun 
ter,  his  clothing  caked  with  dust,  a  laugh  on  his  face, 
dripping  blood  from  a  wound  under  his  coat. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  hit  you — I  tried  to  get  your  horse !  " 
Bingley  gasped. 

"  You  did.  Go  out  and  finish  him.  .  .  .  You're 
not  much  of  a  shot  from  the  saddle — or  perhaps  you  lost 
your  nerve,  Bingley.  .  .  .  Any  way,  1  am  long 
over-due  for  a  wound.  .  .  .  Get  a  surgeon.  I'm 
hard-hit.  Hurry !  " 

Routledge  dropped  forward  on  the  counter,  closing 
his  eyes.  Bingley  disappeared.  The  operator  was  un 
fastening  his  clothes. 

"  Don't  mind  me — until  the  doctor  comes — but  start 
my  stuff  going.  ...  By  the  way,  in  a  couple  of 
hours,  if  it  goes  steadily,  break  in  on  my  stuff  and  give 
Bingley  a  head-line  in  the  Thames  to-morrow.  He  only 
meant  to  get  my  horse — I  see  that.  A  man  takes  liberty 
in  shooting  a  horse  from  under  another — but  never  mind. 
There's  always  room  for  two  at  the  top !  " 

"  He  was  shot  from  behind — a  bad  wound,  but  not 
necessarily  a  fatal  one.  ...  It  hit  him  under  the 
right-shoulder-blade,"  the  doctor  was  saying. 

Routledge  felt  choky  and  very  tired.  His  conscious 
ness  wavered  back  and  forth  like  the  throw  of  wind  under 
a  punkah  when  the  coolies  are  fresh.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  light  running  step  outside.  .  .  .  He  was  to 
go  down  close  to  the  Gates  with  a  lock  on  his  lips. 
.  .  .  His  lips  were  tightened.  First  of  all,  there  was 


The  "Horse-Killer"  301 

a  sweet  breath  of  wind,  like  one  of  the  best  memories  of 
early  life.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  rub  his  eyes,  but  the 
surgeon  held  his  hands.  .  .  .  Noreen's  voice  was 
quick  and  tragic.  The  word  "  die  "  was  uttered. 

"  No,"  the  doctor  repeated ;  "  not  necessarily  a  fatal 
wound.  I've  ordered  a  carriage.  We'll  take  him  to  the 
Rest  House." 

Noreen — the  Leper  Valley — the  Russian  music — the 
Shanghai  Bund — Charing  Cross — the  carriage — the  hovel 
in  Rydamphur— the  night  in  Bookstalls — Noreen — that 
he  must  be  silent  in  delirium — these  were  the  waves  of 
consciousness.  .  .  .  He  felt  her  hand,  her  lips,  upon 
his  brow.  Even  if  it  were  just  a  vision,  he  wanted  to 
welcome  her  with  a  smile,  but  his  lips  were  locked. 

"  Oh,  you  marytr — you  blessed  martyr !  .  .  . 
Don't  you  know  me,  Routledge-san  ?  " 

"  Is  it  true,  Noreen?    Are  you  here?  " 

"  With  you  always,  beloved." 

A  frown  fell  upon  his  face.  "  I  just  came  in  from 
Liaoyang  for  the  cable.  It  isn't  good  for  you  to  be  with 
me." 

"  My  Master — don't  you  know  Father  is  dead,  and 
that  he  was  sane  to  confess  at  the  last?  .  .  .  Feeney 
and  Finacune  were  there." 

The  eyes  of  Routledge  found  her. 

"  Just  a  minute,  doctor, — I  must  say  this.  .  .  . 
Noreen,  don't  speak  of  it  again — the  others  need  not 
know!  Your  father  was  the  best  and  bravest  of  our 
breed " 

"  Strongheart !  .  .  .  London  knows ;  Tokyo 
knows ;  every  British  correspondent  cabled  it  to  his  paper 


302  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

that  night,  months  ago;  there  are  crowns  of  vine-leaves 
for  you  in  the  heart  of  every  friend  of  yours ;  the  Secret 
Service  knows " 

"  But  your  good  name,  Noreen "  he  faltered. 

"  My  name  is  Routledge  for  eternity,"  she  answered, 
and  the  famous  eyes  bent  to  lull  him.  ..."  Sleep, 
my  lover,  sleep.  ...  I  shall  always  be  with  you 
now!" 


TWENTY-FOURTH  CHAPTER 

THE  GREAT  FRIEZE  COAT  AND  THE  WOMAN  JOUR 
NEY  DOWN  THE  COAST  OF  CHINA  TOGETHER,. 
AND  CROSS  INDIA  TO  THE  LEPER  VALLEY 

No  one  hurried  a  destroyer  after  this  torpedo  of  a 
man,  the  "  Horse-killer."  Now  and  then  a  Bingley 
bullet,  when  it  is  not  aimed  too  accurately,  gives  a  tired 
man  a  rest  which  his  energy  would  not  permit  by  any 
less  drastic  measure.  Certain  heroic  temperaments  must 
needs  receive  a  jolt  every  little  while  to  force  them  to 
lie  down. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  men  in  the  world — those  who 
have  a  sense  of  brotherhood,  and  those  whose  every 
thought  is  an  explosion  designed  to  increase  their  own 
personal  impetus.  The  one  makes  war ;  the  other  peace. 
Perhaps  the  ultimate  relation  between  the  two  is  sug 
gested  in  the  race  for  the  cable — and  its  result. 

Routledge  healed  in  a  month,  and  incidentally  found 
his  first  rest  in  years.  Noreen  was  with  him — a  tre 
mendous  thing.  The  two  had  been  long  apart,  pent  and 
hungering.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  the  world  read  and 
commented  upon  the  great  story  of  Liaoyang.  Bingley's 
story  led  in  London. 

On  their  last  day  in  Shanhaikwan,  they  walked  atong^ 
the  Wall — Routledge  and  Noreen — and  that  night  were 
together  in  the  Yellow  Sea.  The  ship  was  the  Tung 
Shing,  a  little  steamer  that  breasted  the  waves  in  her 
own  way,  but  quite  correctly.  So  clean  and  clever  was 
she,  that  every  one  was  refreshed.  There  were  no  dis- 

505 


304  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

tractions,  nor  counter-attractions,  and  every  night-view 
was  beautiful.  The  loom  of  the  Wu  Tung  light  was  over 
the  shoulder  of  the  East,  and  a  cliff  to  avoid  on  the  star 
board.  A  rising  wind  decided  not  to  bother,  and  boomed 
away  north,  before  the  near  sea  was  aroused  to  a  fit  of 
temper. 

Routledge  was  so  happy  that  he  did  not  care  for  utter 
ance.  Noreen  drank  the  chill  breeze  in  silence  for  a 
long  time.  Once  she  placed  her  hand  upon  the  sleeve 
of  the  great  frieze  coat.  .  .  .  Thus  they  sailed  down 
the  variegated  and  populous  coast  of  China — a  different 
breath  from  every  big  and  little  harbor.  Noreen  caught 
them  all  and  was  glad,  divining  far  at  sea  the  places  she 
had  tarried,  but  Routledge  was  Asia  and  countless  con 
tinents  to  her.  One  night  when  only  the  pilot  and  the 
ship-lights  and  themselves  were  burning,  the  thought 
came  to  embrace — but  they  refrained. 

Presently  they  were  down  to  Singapore;  then  across 
to  Calcutta,  where  the  Ganges  opens  her  mighty  throats 
to  the  sea;  then  up  by  devious  travels — to  catch  the 
breath  of  the  Hills  after  the  Heats.  Morning  and  night 
fall,  Routledge  looked  down  into  Noreen's  eyes  and 
found  his  world.  Night-winds  of  India  soothed  them, 
though  apart.  And  they  had  their  thoughts  of  the  day's 
travel  together. 

At  length,  up  over  the  crest  of  the  world  in  their 
wanderings,  they  looked,  from  the  amethyst  Himalayas, 
down  upon  that  strange  dead  civilization  of  China,  a 
vista  for  eagles.  Tight  in  the  heart  of  it  was  the  Leper 
Valley. 

This  is  reached  by  one  of  the  lost  trails  of  the  world. 
A  few  gallant  explorers  have  picked  the  way,  but  failed 


The  Leper  Valley  305 

to  publish  since  the  people  would  think  such  a  report  a 
fiction,  and  their  reputations  for  veracity  be  broken. 
Traders  pass  the  rim  of  the  gap  regularly,  but  do  not 
know  it. 

Routledge  had  learned  it  from  a  Sannyasi.  The  way 
is  tortuous  and  a  bit  perilous,  so  he  arranged  for  Noreen 
and  himself  to  follow  a  party  of  traders.  Among  these 
men  was  a  Boy.  There  was  cleanness  in  his  gray  eye, 
and  you  could  not  think  of  taint  and  look  at  his  cheeks 
so  ruddy  under  the  tan.  The  Boy  searched  Noreen's 
face  with  the  guilelessness  of  a  child  and  the  valor  of  a 
man.  When  he  rode  beside  her,  the  air  that  she  breathed 
was  new. 

Of  course  the  saddle  was  torture  to  her,  a  cumulative 
torture  with  the  hours,  but  it  was  only  physical,  and 
night  bore  down  with  the  sleep  of  healing,  from  the 
twilight  of  evening  to  the  twilight  of  dawn.  The  journey 
melted  into  a  strange  composite  of  cool  mountain  winds ; 
brief,  warm  showers  which  released  the  fragrance  of  the 
valleys ;  humans  in  dim  doors  and  upon  the  highways, 
held,  as  they  passed,  in  tableaux  of  freezing  horror — 
suffering,  sunlight,  sleep.  And  always  ancient  China 
unfolded  greater  vistas  of  hills,  fields,  huts,  and  glower 
ing  yellow  faces ;  and  always  the  Boy  walked  beside  and 
served — a  ragged  chaperon. 

Routledge  would  smile  on  his  way  and  note  the  large 
relation.  The  traders,  too,  were  respectful — brave  men 
whom  the  Open  had  kept  mainly  pure.  There  is  a  curse 
upon  a  white  man  in  Asia,  if  he  relaxes. 

Once  the  Boy  said :    "  Don't  be  afraid,  lady.     This 
is  the  sleepiest  part  of  China.     Any  way,  I  would  take 
care  of  you." 
20 


306  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Routledge  bent  over  from  his  mount  and  patted  the 
Boy's  shoulder. 

They  parted  by  the  wayside  with  a  smile — the  Boy 
and  Noreen.  She  proffered  him  her  purse,  but  he 
answered : 

"  I  don't  want  that.  But  any  time  I  can  help  you — 
hail  out!  What  are  you  going  to  do — stopping  off 
here?" 

She  threw  a  kiss  to  him,  but  did  not  answer.  The 
traders  were  far  ahead,  and  the  Boy  turned  his  back. 

"  The  world  has  gone,"  Noreen  said,  after  they  had 
walked  long  through  a  tangled  way.  "  Look  below." 

"  Yes — the  Leper  Valley — our  bravest  man !  " 

It  was  mid-afternoon.  Routledge  paused  at  the  verge 
of  a  steep  declivity,  and  they  saw  a  radiant  hollow  evenly 
rimmed  by  mountains  on  every  side.  A  lake  gleamed  at 
the  bottom  of  this  finger-bowl  of  the  Gods,  and  moist 
tropical  perfumes  were  borne  softly  upward  with  a  far 
sound  of  bells — faint  as  the  tinkle  of  drops  of  water  fall 
ing  upon  thin  metal. 

And  together  they  went  down  into  the  fragrance. 
Noreen  could  feel  her  heart ;  she  could  feel  her  soul ;  and 
too  there  was  an  enchanting  beauty  in  this  delve  of  the 
world.  It  sustained.  It  was  so  wonderful — like  a  child 
laughing  alone  in  paradise!  There  was  a  sound  of 
chimes  in  the  vast  silence,  and  God  seemed  to  speak 
above. 

The  thatches  below  were  trimmed  and  even.  There 
were  spaces  between  them,  and  from  the  heights  these 
spaces  had  the  clean  look  of  a  brown  polished  floor. 
There  was  depth  and  purity  in  the  green  of  the  lake,  and 


The  Leper  Valley  307 

the  little  temple,  in  the  midst  of  its  gardens,  was  white 
as  Truth. 

They  were  in  a  swept  and  shaded  village.  The 
woman  was  walking  swiftly,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes 
feverishly  bright.  Routledge  laughed  quietly  at  her  ardor 
to  see  the  man  whom  his  heart  knew  to  be  there  and 
always  waiting.  The  huts  seemed  deserted,  except  for 
those  who  could  not  leave. 

A  voice  reached  them  at  last — the  voice  that  had 
echoed  through  the  inner  consciousness  of  each  so  long. 

.  .  His  back  was  toward  them.  The  people  upon 
the  earth  before  him,  they  did  not  see — save  as  factors  of 
the  scene.  Swiftly  they  moved  forward  now. 

Rawder's  hand  was  raised  in  the  sunlight.  It  was 
slender,  nervously  responsive  to  his  emotion — but  whole, 
whole!  A  little  way  off  they  halted,  inspired  by  a 
glimpse  of  his  profile.  ...  It  was  the  face  of  the  man 
who  had  climbed  to  the  roof  of  the  world,  lived  through 
ice  and  flame;  it  was  sun-darkened,  storm-bitten,  gaunt 
from  suffering  under  the  irons  of  self-repression,  mystical 
in  its  manifestation  of  a  cosmos  within.  It  was  the  face 
of  an  exile  who  has  felt  the  hate  of  man,  the  absence  of 
women,  and  the  Presence  of  God.  And  it  was  whole, 
whole. 

He  turned  suddenly  and  saw  the  two  standing  to 
gether.  There  was  something  beautiful  in  his  bewilder 
ment,  and  in  the  expression  of  sadness  which  followed — 
since  this  was  to  be  his  last  meeting  with  Routledge. 
A  gesture,  and  the  lowly  ones  were  dismissed ;  and  when 
the  temple-court  was  empty,  save  for  the  Three — they 
joined  hands. 


308  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Whispering,  he  led  them  into  the  temple  gardens  at 
the  edge  of  the  lake.  The  water  was  glorified  in  the 
sunset,  and  by  the  stones  of  his  doorway  the  drowsy  lilies 
drank  the  last  rays.  Magicians  of  ancient  and  wondrous 
patience  had  conserved  the  verdure  and  mastered  the 
flowerings.  There  were  none  but  flawless  leaves  and 
none  but  classic  blooms.  The  pebbles  on  the  shore  had 
been  touched  into  mosaics,  and  the  vines  which  fixed  the 
coolness  in  the  stones  of  his  dwelling  had  seemingly 
been  guided  into  perfection  by  fingers  in  the  night.  Out 
of  love  his  people  served  him ;  out  of  love  they  had 
charmed  a  fountain  from  the  ground  near  his  doorway; 
placed  sounding-shells  to  lure  music  from  the  dropping 
water,  and  forced  Emperor  roses  lavishly  to  arise  and 
shelter  and  perfume  his  bathing-place. 

"  All  these  things  my  people  have  done  for  me, 
blessed  friends,"  Rawder  said,  "  and  all  I  asked  when  I 
came  was  to  share  a  hut  with  the  least  of  them." 

At  the  arbored  doorway,  he  stepped  aside  and  bowed 
their  entrance.  Far  within  a  figure  moved  to  and  fro 
without  a  sound. 

The  perfection  of  the  little  home  in  the  gardens  of 
the  temple  was  like  singing  in  the  hearts  of  the  lovers. 
.  .  .  As  they  entered,  the  Name,  marvellously  intoned, 
reached  them  from  the  figure  which  had  moved  but  a 
moment  before,  but  they  could  not  see  clearly  in  the  dim 
twilight.  When  the  candles  were  brought,  Routledge 
found  that  it  was  Sekar,  the  Hindu  Master.  So  ancient 
and  withered  was  he,  that  his  sitting  erect  on  a  mat  of 
kusa  grass  seemed  a  miracle. 

Rawder  served  them  with  food  and  drink ;  and  after 
ward,  outside,  the  Three  talked  long  at  the  edge  of  the 


The  Leper  Valley  309 

fountain.  Always,  from  within,  they  heard  the  ineffable 
syllable,  OM,  at  intervals,  like  a  distant  sound  of  the  sea 
on  a  rocky  beach.  From  the  huts  of  the  afflicted  there 
was  steady  silence. 

At  last  the  meditation  was  broken,  and  they  heard 
quaveringly  from  Sekar  within  these  words  in  Tibetan. 
Rawder  translated  hastily : 

"  My  son,  my  chela!  .  .  .  To-morrow  we  arise 
and  ascend  the  goodly  mountains  to  our  Long  Home. 
We  are  very  weary,  and  I  have  seen  that  our  work  is 
finished  here." 

The  Three  entered.  Sekar  beheld  them.  After  a 
moment,  Sekar  spoke: 

"  And  this  is  the  friend  of  my  chela;  and  this,  the 
woman  ?  " 

Rawder  bowed. 

"  To-morrow,  in  the  first  light,"  the  Hindu  said  fer 
vently,  "  my  chela  and  I  depart  for  the  Hills  where  the 
Snows  are — where  none  may  follow.  And  you,  man 
and  woman,  go  back  to  the  world." 

Noreen  turned  a  quick  glance  from  Routledge  to 
Rawder.  "  Ask  him,"  she  said  swiftly  to  the  latter,  "  if 
there  is  not  a  great  work  for  us  to  do  here  in  the  Leper 
Valley !  " 

The  face  of  the  bravest  man  was  frightened,  ghastly, 
as  he  interpreted.  The  eyes  of  Routledge  were  fixed 
upon  the  woman  as  never  before. 

"  No,"  the  Hindu  said.  "  We  have  left  our  disciples 
here  among  the  Chinese.  The  Valley  will  be  sweetened 
by  them.  You,  man  and  woman,  have  a  greater  work  in 
the  world,  as  my  chela  and  I  have  a  greater  work — far 
above  the  world !  " 


310  Routledge  Rides  Alone 

Deep  into  the  night  the  Three  listened  to  the  music 
of  the  fountain,  in  the  pure  ardor  of  the  lilies ;  and  there 
was  a  moment  in  which  Rawder  wept.  ...  In  the 
full  light  of  morning,  the  Four  were  at  the  parting  of 
their  ways. 

"  Remember,"  said  the  bravest  man,  "  always,  to  you 
both,  whom  I  have  had  the  joy  to  make  One,  goes  out 
constantly — the  dearest  of  my  heart — from  the  Hills  or 
from  the  Stars !  " 

Routledge  and  Noreen  watched,  as  he  helped  his 
Master — until  the  two  were  lost  in  the  winding,  rising 
trail.  Then  they  looked  down,  a  last  time,  upon  the 
silence  and  sunrise  which  brooded  upon  the  Leper 
Valley. 


END. 


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The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Jane  Cable.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Abner  Daniel.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

The  Far  Horizon.     By  Lucas  Malet. 

The  Halo.    By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Jerry  Junior.    By  Jean  Webster. 

The  Powers  and  Maxine.     By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

The  Balance  of  Power.    By  Arthur  Goodrich. 

Adventures  of  Captain  Kettle.    By  Cutcliffe  Hyne. 

Adventures  of  Gerard.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Armo  and  the  Woman.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Artemus  Ward's  Works   (extra  illustrated). 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Awakening  of  Helena  Richie.     By  Margaret  Deland. 

Battle  Ground,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Belle  of  Bowling  Green,  The.     By  Amelia  E.  Barr. 

Ben  Blair.     By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Best  Man,  The.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Beth  Norvell.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Bob  Hampton  of  Placer.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Bob,  Son  of  Battle.     By  Alfred  Ollivant. 

Brass  Bowl,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Brethren,  The.     By  H.  Rider  Haggard. 

Broken   Lance,   The.     By   Herbert   Quick. 

By  Wit  of  Women.    By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont. 

Call  of  the  Blood,  The.    By  Robert  Kitchens. 

Cap'n  Eri.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cardigan.     By  Robert  W.   Chambers. 

Car  of  Destiny,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  N.  Williamson. 

Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine.    By  Frank 

R.  Stockton. 
Cecilia's  Lovers.    By  Amelia  E.  Barr. 


Popular  Copyright  Books 

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Circle,  The.     By  Katherine  Cecil  Thurston  (author  of  "The 

Masquerader."  "The  Gambler"). 

Colonial  Free  Lance,  A.    By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 
Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.    By  Booth  Tarkington. 
Courier  of  Fortune,  A.    By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont 
Darrow  Enigma,  The.     By  Melvin  Severy. 
Deliverance,  The.     By  Ellen  Glasgow. 
Divine  Fire,  The.     By  May  Sinclair. 
Empire  Builders.     By  Francis  Lynde. 
Exploits  of  Brigadier  Gerard.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Fighting  Chance,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
For  a  Maiden  Brave.    By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 

Fugitive  Blacksmith,  The.     By  Chas.  D.  Stewart. 

God's  Good  Man.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

Heart's  Highway,  The.     By  Mary  E.  Wilkins. 

Holladay  Case,  The.    By  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson. 

Hurricane  Island.    By  H.  B.  Marriott  Watson. 

In  Defiance  of  the  King.     By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 

Indifference  of  Juliet,  The,     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Infelice.    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Lady  Betty  Across  the  Water.     By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Will 
iamson. 

Lady  ot  the  Mount,  The.    By  Frederic  S.  I  sham. 
Lane  That  Had  No  Turning,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 
Langford  of  the  Three  Bars.     By  Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 
Last  Trail,  The.     By  Zane  Grey. 
Leavenworth  Case,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 
Lilac  Sunbonnet,  The.    By  S.  R.  Crockett. 
Lin  McLean.    By  Owen  Wister. 
Long  Night,  The.     By  Stanley  J.  Weyman. 
Maid  at  Arms,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 


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Man  from  Red  Keg,  The.     By  Eugene  Thwing. 

Marthon  Mystery,  The.    By  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Millionaire  Baby,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Missourian,  The.    By  Eugene  P.  Lyle,  Jr. 

Mr.  Barnes,  American.    By  A.  C.  Gunter. 

Mr.  Pratt.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

My  Friend  the  ChauJeur.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

My  Lady  of  the  North.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  June  13th.     By  Melvin  L.  Severy. 

Mystery  Tales.     By  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

Nancy  Stair.     By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane. 

Order  No.  11.    By  Caroline  Abbot  Stanley. 

Pam.     By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Pam  Decides.    By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Partners  of  the  Tide.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Phra  the  Phoenician.     By  Edwin  Lester  Arnold. 

President,  The.    By  Afred  Henry  Lewis. 

Princess  Passes,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Princess  Virginia,  The.     By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Prisoners.    By  Mary  Cholmondeley. 

Private  War,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Prodigal  Son,  The.    By  Hall  Caine. 

Quickening,  The.    By  Francis  Lynde. 

Richard  the  Brazen.    By  Cyrus  T.  Brady  and  Edw.  Peple* 

Rose  of  the  World.     By  Agnes  and  Egerton  Castle. 

Running  Water.    By  A.  E.  W.  Mason. 

Sarita  the  Carlist.     By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont. 

Seats  of  the  Mighty,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Sir  Nigel.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Sir  Richard  Calmady.     By  Lucas  Malet. 

Speckled  Bird,  A.    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 


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Spirit  of  the  Border,  The.     By  Zane  Grey. 

Spoilers,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Squire  Phin.     By  Holman  F.  Day. 

Stooping  Lady,  The.       By  Maurice  Hewlett. 

Subjection  of  Isabel  Carnaby.  By  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler. 

Sunset  Trail,  The.     By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Sword  of  the  Old  Frontier,  A.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

That  Printer  of  Udell's.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright 

Throwback,  The.     By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Trail  of  the  Sword,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Treasure  of  Heaven,  The.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

Two  Vanrevels,  The.     By  Booth  Tarkington. 

Up  From  Slavery.    By  Booker  T.  Washington. 

Vashti.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Viper  of  Milan,  The  (original  edition).    By  Marjorie  Bowen. 

Voice  of  the  People,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Wheel  of  Life,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

When  Wilderness  Was  King.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Where  the  Trail  Divides.    By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Woman  in  Grey,  A.    By  Mrs.  C.  N.  Williamson. 

Woman  in  the  Alcove,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Younger  Set,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

The  Weavers.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

The  Little  Brown  Jug  at  Kildare.    By  Meredith  Nicholson. 

The  Prisoners  of  Chance.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  Cleve.    By  Percy  J.  Hartley. 

Loaded  Dice.    By  Ellery  H.  Clark. 

Get  Rich  Quick  Wallingford.    By  George  Randolph  Chester. 

The  Orphan.     By  Clarence  Mulford. 

A  Gentleman  of  France.    By  Stanley  J.  Weyman. 


